


Like the Wings of a Hummingbird

by astrild



Series: The Chronicles of Haven [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Betaed, Bonding Rituals, Community: spn_adambang, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Forced Bonding, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:05:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrild/pseuds/astrild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where vessels are rare and necessary treasures for powerful mages, serving boy Adam finds his world turned upside down when he's called forth to take his half-brother's place as vessel and bondmate to Michael, Archmage of Water. Will this be the doom Adam expects it to be? Will the bond even take? And, for the love of the gods, will anybody ever tell him why it's so vital that he begin submitting to the bond practically before he even shakes off the dust from travel?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a wild ride! All my gratitude goes out to the mods over at [](http://spn-adambang.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_adambang**](http://spn-adambang.livejournal.com/) for organizing this challenge and being so patient with me throughout; to [](http://-bluebells.livejournal.com/profile)[**_bluebells**](http://-bluebells.livejournal.com/) for holding my hand and keeping me from giving up; to [](http://eosrose.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**eosrose**](http://eosrose.dreamwidth.org/) for flailing enthusiastically even when I wouldn't let her see what I was working on; to [](http://cashay.livejournal.com/profile)[**cashay**](http://cashay.livejournal.com/) for creating such lovely art; and to [](http://cosmo-naught.livejournal.com/profile)[**cosmo_naught**](http://cosmo-naught.livejournal.com/) for jumping in to help with some last-minute beta work.

Michael stares mutely into his empty teacup, wishing he could divine the pattern of the future in the dredges of leaves. He doesn't need to look up to know that everyone around the table is watching at him, waiting for him to react.

Should he be angry? Hurt? Disappointed? None of it feels real. Michael and Dean were to be bonded today. That won't happen now.

"Dean and Cas aren't traitors," Sam repeats sullenly—like repetition could make it true. Michael understands the sentiment. He doesn't want to believe it either. But he is, above all, a realist and the facts are clear: sometime around midnight that very night, Dean Winchester had broken Castiel Novak, a convicted traitor, out of the palace cells and disappeared with him.

The city is on high alert for any trace of the pair, but the search would prove unfruitful. Dean is too well-trained to make mistakes. And the traitor? The traitor Michael had trained himself.

Michael closes his eyes against the pounding in his ears.

Dean and Castiel are long gone.


	2. Part I

The parlor Zachariah ushers him into isn't nearly as grandiose as Adam had anticipated, but it's still unmistakably the residence of a man of considerable wealth and power. It's filled with the typical modish furnishings and strategically-placed ornamentation one would expect from a man of status, though there's also a blandness to it all that speaks of cold practicality. There are no signs that this space is actually _lived in_. It's not a home, it's not even a showcase—it's just _there_.

Adam suspects his intended bondmate doesn't spend much time entertaining guests in a personal capacity. He can't help but wonder if that will change after the bonding. Will he be expected to socialize and play host as any good, well-bred spouse to a powerful man ought? Or will he be kept hidden away—out of sight, out of mind—like the poor excuse for a replacement he is? He's not sure how he feels about either possibility, or even if he should feel anything at all.

It's been a long day—a long damned _fortnight_. He doesn't want to deal with any of this right now, doesn't want to think about how his life has been turned inside-out and upside down, doesn't want to think about Lord Michael Milton. He just wants to sleep, to forget everything, if only for a few hours.

But Lord Milton wants to meet him.

Lord Milton's wants will always supersede his own.

"If you are quite finished gawking, the washroom is through there," Zachariah says, gesturing toward the door closest to the sitting area. "I suggest—" If the way he spits the words is any indication, he's not actually _suggesting_ anything. "—that you make use of it. You are to wait in the parlor until Lord Milton comes to you. He is a very busy man, so it may be a while. I would also advise that you take some time to study the book I gave you."

Adam's hand instinctively goes to the well-thumbed book tucked into the inner pocket of his frock coat: a guide to bonding between mages and vessels. It had been bitterly dull the first time he'd read it; the experience hadn't improved much with repetition. He must have paged through it a hundred times on the train to the King's City.

"Um, yeah, I'll do that," Adam lies, then jumps on the most salient issue: "You're not going to wait with me?"

Zachariah sniffs derisively. "Certainly not." Adam manages to hide his sudden surge of glee, but only just. "I was tasked with your retrieval, nothing more. You are someone else's problem now." With that Zachariah starts toward the door, pausing only briefly in the doorway to say, "I will have the kitchen send up a small repast. We wouldn't want you to perish of hunger before your big day, now would we?"

Only years' worth of hard-won self-control prevents Adam from following Zachariah into the hall to wipe that mocking smirk off his face. If he never sees that man's ugly mug again, it will be too soon.

"Typical capital snob thinking he's better than everyone else," Adam mutters, shucking his coat with more force than is, perhaps, required. After a moment's consideration he tugs off his cravat too, shoving the annoying bit of fabric into the coat pocket beside his book. If he's going to be waiting around for any length of time, he's damn well going to do it in comfort. Summer may finally be upon them, but the weather has been unseasonably cool for the past few days and he had dressed accordingly. With the fire blazing freshly away in the fireplace, the apartment is really much too warm.

He's tempted to remove his waistcoat as well; it's the finest he has, but he's had it for years and no amount of tailoring will ever make it fit as it should. Alas, there's impropriety and then there's _impropriety_. Adam may not be nobility, but he has his pride. His momma raised him well.

He has half a mind to ignore Zachariah's instruction to wash out of sheer spite, but he's been travelling for nigh on four days and the conveniences on the train had been limited. Perhaps a proper wash will improve his sour mood. The gods know Adam is at the end of his tether.

The washroom is delightfully modern, all shining silver and porcelain and echoing space. Adam is excited to discover that not only is there indoor plumbing, but the temperature of the water running from the washbasin's taps can be adjusted at will. Even his last employer hadn't had a self-heating water system and she'd been exceptionally fond of her newfangled gadgets and whatsits. How is the water-heating mechanism powered? Magic? This is the mage's academy, so that would make sense, though Adam has a hard time imagining mages putting their gifts to use on anything so pedantic.

Adam eyes the porcelain tub speculatively. It's more than large enough for any single person to fully submerge himself in. Why, you could probably fit two or three grown men in that tub without any trouble at all! Living in the capital has some perks, at least. He could get used to these sorts of luxuries.

After completing his ablutions, Adam returns to the parlor, where he casts his eyes around indecisively. Should he wait in the sitting area? Should he take a seat at the small dining table in expectation of his meal?

Adam's gaze flickers to the unexplored doors adjacent to the parlor. The room is essentially one large rectangle with a wall of windows opposite the main entryway. Each of the remaining walls contains two closed doors, which stand opposite each other in perfect symmetry. One of those doors leads to the washroom, but the other three remain a mystery. One must lead to a bedroom, of course, but what of the other two? A study? Lord Milton is an Archmage, so maybe a workroom of some kind, or even a chapel. Mages claim to have been blessed by the gods, so presumably they're a pious lot, at least on the surface.

As he'll be living here within the week, it wouldn't really be snooping to take a look around, would it? Adam can practically hear his momma's admonishments already.

Sighing, Adam flops down on the sofa farthest from the ridiculously ornate fireplace and throws an arm over his eyes to block out the light. It's not long before he's being lulled into a pleasant doze by the warmth of the fire and the soft give of the cushions beneath him.

* * *

Adam is roused from his dearly-deserved rest by a sharp rap on the door: the servant with his meal.

"Enter," Adam calls out, voice thick with sleep.

The door glides open and Adam sits up to watch a mousy maid push in a cart laden with tea, cookies, pastries, and a cover plat of what smells like some sort of roast or stew. She acknowledges him with a curtsey and a polite, "Good evening to you, sir," before methodically unloading the contents of her cart onto the table and leaving with another curtsey and a murmured, "Is there anything else my lord will be wanting this evening?" It's all very unsettling. No one's ever called him "my lord" before, not unless it was in jest.

Suddenly Adam's nerves are singing with tension and the last thing he wants to do is eat. Returning to his doze is out of the question.

His eyes dart to the mystery doors once again.

He shouldn't.

He really, really shouldn't.

Lord Milton could return any minute.

"Oh, honestly, what's he going to do if he catches me nosing about? Refuse to bond with me? I should be so lucky," Adam mutters and walks toward the door next to the washroom. When tries the knob, it doesn't budge. Locked.

Disappointed, but not deterred in the least, Adam crosses the room to the opposite door. This one opens without resistance, the well-oiled hinges gliding easily to allow a peek inside. He's found the bedroom. The light from the parlor casts grotesque shadows in the dark expanse, but the illumination is enough to reveal a room just as impersonally comfortable as the parlor. There are no shelves filled with baubles, no trinkets, no books on the bedside table, and no clothes draped over the top of the bureau to indicate that anyone actually lives here; it's all neat to military precision. Adam would wager that there isn't so much as a speck of dust anywhere to be found.

Unable to help himself, he finds his gaze focusing on the bed, a sick feeling pooling in his stomach. It certainly is massive. Feather-soft, no doubt. Probably like sleeping on a cloud.

He'll know exactly how soft it is all too soon.

Adam shuts the door on a shaky exhalation and approaches the last door, which also proves to be unlocked. The room behind this door proves to be _much_ more interesting than the previous one. Curious, Adam flips on the light and steps inside.

It's the man's study—and there is nothing bland or military neat about it. Papers, files, and ledgers are haphazardly stacked all over the large writing desk, with more peeking out from the overstuffed drawers of a file cabinet. Books are stacked high on the floor beside the desk and on either side of the lounge situated under a reading lamp. Scraps of papers jut chaotically from the edges of the books, presumably marking passages of interest. Still more books and papers fill the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that span the length of three whole walls; the shelves are so crammed-full that they've been piled two-rows deep in some places. In short: it's a mess.

"Looks like Lord Milton is human after all," Adam says aloud, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He'd started to fear that he was marrying some sort of inhumanly perfect clockwork automaton. Which may be a sign that he reads to much pulp fiction, but hey—if anyone could build a working automaton, it would be a mage.

Upon closer inspection, many of the books appear to be written in foreign tongues, though a fair few are in the vernacular. Some of the titles are so shockingly _normal_ that Adam has trouble crediting their presence and he has to flip through a few pages to make sure the dust jackets haven't been switched for the purpose of misdirection. Why would Lord Milton be reading up on subjects as mundane as _cookery_ or _pest control_? And, good grief, was that a penny dreadful poking out from beneath the morning paper?

" _The Duke's Passion_?" Adam reads incredulously and then decides that, no, he doesn't actually want to know.

Adam isn't much interested in the contents of the desk (poking through someone's personal papers would feel like too much of a violation for his own peace of mind) but something partially obscured behind a stack of files catches his attention: the top edge of a small, delicately carved picture frame. A personal memento? It's the first sign of any such sentimentality he's come across. How could he resist? He reaches for the frame and pulls it out for closer inspection.

It takes him a moment to realize that he's looking at a gods-honest _color photograph_ —and not one that has been hand-painted, either. At least not as far as he can tell. The colors are muted, but still impressive. He hadn't realized anyone had developed a workable process for developing color photographs just yet. How had such a thing been accomplished?

More important still: who are the man and the woman in this portrait?

They are both impeccably poised, the woman perched gracefully on a chair, her skirts artfully arranged, and the man standing behind her and a little off to the side, one hand settled on the back of her chair. The woman is clearly the elder of the two, perhaps by two decades or so. She can't be more than fifty. The man is a few years older than Adam, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. Presumably the two are related, perhaps mother and son or aunt and nephew. There's a definite familial resemblance shared between them; they have the same sharp curve of the jaw, the same hawklike eyes, and the same piercing stares. It's silly, but Adam feels as though they're staring right out at him and _seeing_ him. It's unsettling.

For all her intensity, Adam must admit that the woman has a kind face. There's a softness to her that speaks of many years of laughter and love. Her smile is natural and a little mysterious, like she has a secret.

The man, though. Something about him sets Adam on edge, makes bells and whistles sound in his head. He looks—Well, he looks familiar in a way that he shouldn't. It takes Adam a few minutes of increasingly agitated study to realize why.

For as long as Adam can remember, his mother has kept a small drawing tucked away in her traveling trunk, safely stored in the flap that had been appended to the lid for the sole purpose of containing it. The drawing isn't particularly impressive, just one of those silly sketches any down-on-his-luck street-corner artist might do for a copper crown or two, but his mother treasures it like it's made of gold. Sometimes, late at night, she takes that drawing out and just _looks at it_. Sometimes she cries.

Adam hates that drawing.

More than that, he hates the man _in_ that drawing, that careless, heartless nobleman who took a shine to a pretty serving girl, who lured her into his bed with sweet words and empty promises and left her to heartbreak and ruin.

That face—that handsome, deceitful face. He would know that face anywhere.

The man in his mother's drawing and the man in this photograph could be twins. The similarities aren't just similarities; it's like they were shaped from the same mold.

Feeling sick, Adam flips over the frame, searching for some indicator of who the subjects of the photograph may be, but finds nothing. It doesn't matter. He's pretty sure he knows who the man in the photograph is. Because the gods have it out for him, he's sure of it.

"You must be Adam Winchester."

The voice, low and even, makes Adam's heart stutter in his chest.

Slowly, Adam turns—and his suspicion is confirmed. The man in the photograph is leaning against the doorframe, head cocked to one side, observing Adam like he's a puzzle to be solved.

So this is his bondmate-to-be. This is Lord Milton.

Adam wishes the floor would open beneath him.

"I—I'm so sorry, my lord! I didn't mean to pry. I was just—"

"Curious?" Lord Milton says. "Calm yourself; it is quite alright. I am not angry with you."

"You're not?"

The man huffs a laugh, but there's more self-deprecation to it than humor. "If I had been concerned about you nosing around, I would have had you sent you to the guestroom set aside for you and called for you when I was ready to entertain. This is to be your home. You are welcome to it." Lord Milton waves a hand around the room—and Adam must be imagining things, because the lord's cheeks appear to have gone a little pink. "I hope you will forgive the mess. I don't like for the servants to come in here and—Well, tidying up has not been high on my list of priorities of late, you understand."

"I suppose it hasn't, my lord."

"You needn't call me 'my lord'. In fact, I would really rather you didn't. You'll find we mages have little patience for formalities. No one calls me by title excepting, of course, the servants."

Adam's hackles rise at the sheer careless arrogance of that statement, but he manages a polite, "I am a servant, my lord," just the same.

Lord Milton winces. "I meant no offence."

"Of course not, my lord."

"Please," Lord Milton sighs, "won't you call me Michael?"

Reluctantly, Adam relents. "If that is what you wish, my—" He stumbles and corrects himself. "Michael." Awkwardly, he adds, "You may call me Adam, then. And it's Milligan, not—Not Winchester."

"Very well," Lord Milton—Michael—agrees.

An awkward silence settles over them. Adam feels like he's missed some cue, like Michael is waiting for him so say something, but he doesn't know what. What do you say to the stranger you're about to bind yourself to? What do you say to the man who ruined your life? He can think of a few things, but he's not an idiot. Running his mouth at this juncture won't solve anything.

Just because he's been effectively cornered doesn't mean he needs to lash out like a rabid animal.

"I, uh." Adam clears his throat and sets the picture frame back down on the desk. "I was just thinking—when you came in—how very like the late Lord Winchester you are. My father, I mean."

"Yes," Michael sighs, like this is something people are always commenting on. "John Winchester was my second cousin, you see. One of my great-grandfathers was also one of his grandfathers. Lord Matthew Milton. We both take after him. I realize the resemblance may be ... discomfiting to you. It was to—It was to Dean as well."

Adam swears the temperature in the room drops ten degrees when Michael says Dean's name. He wonders why Dean left, if anyone will ever tell him, if anyone even knows.

"It is. Discomfiting, that is. But I'm sure I'll grow used to it."

It's a bold-faced lie and they both know it. Michael doesn't call him on it, merely nods and says, "There is a lot that we'll both need to grow used to in the coming weeks. That's why I wished to speak to you tonight. Will you join me at the dinette?"

Adam follows Michael out of the study and over to table, where his meal has gone cold. Michael directs Adam to the seat in front of the covered dish and takes the seat across from him, peering at the array of foodstuffs between them with a frown.

"You haven't touched any of it," Michael observes. "Is none of it to your liking?"

Adam ducks his head, focusing on the fine grain of the tabletop, the polished shine. "No, it's fine. I was just..."

"Just?"

"Too nervous to eat."

"Ah," Michael acknowledges, then adds, carefully, "Do you think you could eat a little now?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" Adam removes the cover from the dish in front of him. He was right: it's stew. It looks delicious, like something his mother would make, but it's gone lukewarm by now.

His stomach rumbles plaintively.

And then something unexpected happens.

Heat.

Heat is flowing over his skin, filling his lungs, pulsing through his veins, crackling in his ears—it's _everywhere_ , whispering to him, calling him, lulling him to—to what? He doesn't know. He doesn't know, but it's so—

Then it's gone.

With a gasp Adam jerks his gaze up from his now steaming bowl of stew to find Michael looking speculatively back at him.

"What _was_ that?" Adam demands, shaken to the core.

"You're sensitive," Michael says mildly. "More sensitive than either of your brothers, I think. That you could sense so small a spell with such intensity is a good sign. I had thought Zachariah's summation of your potential and our mutual compatibility may have been overly optimistic, but I was clearly mistaken. We're well-matched. Have you sensed anything like that before?"

"I've sensed magic before, but _never_ like that. Usually it's just a sort of... I don't know, a tingle? Sometimes I'll get gooseflesh or my eyes will go a little spotty for a moment, but what just happened now, with you? That was something else entirely." It was fucking terrifying, that's what it was. Overwhelming. He'd lost himself for a moment, lost himself in _fire_. It was as if the Fire Lord had been right there, all around him.

Gods above.

Will it be like that from now on? Had Michael just _triggered_ something in him? Until now he'd had little exposure to mages working their arts, but he'll be living on the campus of the mage's academy for the foreseeable future. There will be no relief, no escape!

Apparently sensing Adam's distress, Michael says, "Once we've bonded and once you've had some proper training, it will be easier. You'll learn to shield yourself. In the meantime, I'll take care to strengthen my own shields; I have no desire to make you uncomfortable when I weave my spells."

Through clenched teen, Adam hisses, "What about others? We're smack-dab in the center of campus! There are mages everywhere. I'll go mad if I'm hit by another wave of _that_ every time I pass within casting range."

"The walls of the academy are well-shielded, I promise you. And even if they were not, it is unlikely that anyone else will affect you so strongly."

"And why is that?"

Michael smiles gently—the villain!—and says, "I affect you so strongly only because I am an exceptionally powerful Archmage, you are as yet unbonded, I am as yet unbonded, and you and I are compatible. No one else will affect you as I do."

"Oh."

"Eat," Michael chides. "You'll feel better."

Adam obeys. At least if he has his mouth full, he won't be tempted to open his mouth and say something he shouldn't.

There is so much Adam doesn't know about what he is, about his so-called gift, about vessels and mages and how it all this magical nonsense works. He was born a servant; he'd been sure he'd die a servant. Knowing about all the traditions, ceremonies, rules and whatnots pertaining to the four gods and their disciples: that was the purview of mages, priests and scholars. It was never supposed to have anything to do with him. But now it does.

He needs to know these things and he doesn't.

He's entered a bizarre new world, one where he doesn't know the rules.

Intellectually, he'd known that his old life was over—but _knowing_ isn't the same as _understanding_. He's maybe starting to understand.

While Adam contemplates his stew, Michael reheats the tea with an absent-minded gesture that makes Adam's whole body go taut with expectation, but Michael keeps his promise. All Adam feels is a faint tingle along his nerves, like an itch beneath his skin; it's annoying, nothing more.

Michael wordlessly passes Adam a cup of tea and settles back to sip at his own cup. He watches intently as Adam eats, which doesn't do much for Adam's nerves. Adam keeps dabbing his mouth with his napkin, sure that there must be something on his face.

Finally, Michael asks, "Are you prepared for tomorrow?"

Adam snorts around his mouthful and almost chokes.

"What do you think?"

Michael frowns. "I understand that this is difficult for you—"

"Difficult?" Adam parrots, incredulous. All the anger that's been simmering beneath the surface since Zachariah first came to him bubbles up and spills over. "You _understand_ that this is _difficult_ for me? The only reason I'm here is because _my mother is dying_. She's dying and the only way to get her the treatment she needs is to submit to this—this thing, with you. I'm being forced into a bond—a _life_ —that I don't want, because you need something from me and you're willing to use underhanded tactics to get it. Don't you dare pretend that you understand _anything_ about what I'm going through. Don't. You. Dare."

"I've upset you again. Forgive me," Michael says, pursing his lips unhappily. He looks sincerely apologetic, even lost, like he's floundering in unfamiliar waters. Adam's too angry to throw him a line.

It isn't until Michael awkwardly holds out his handkerchief that Adam realizes that his cheeks are wet with tears.

"For what it's worth," Michael says, "I am sorry about your mother. The healing mages here will give her exceptional care. If anyone can cure what ails her, it will be them. She will be in good hands."

Adam can't speak past the knot in his throat. He accepts Michael's handkerchief for the peace offering that it is and focuses on pulling himself back together.

He doesn't notice that Michael has rounded the table between them until he's already kneeling beside Adam's chair, silently beseeching Adam to look at him. His expression is serious, his eyes dark and unreadable. Adam doesn't know what to make of it, but he doesn't protest when Michael gently clasps one of Adam's hands between his own.

Softly, Michael says, "I know you have no reason to believe me, but if I could have had my way, you never would have come to me like this. I would have gone to you. I would have courted you properly, so that we could have come to know each other outside our roles as mage and vessel. You would have been given a real choice—and even if you had said 'no,' perhaps we could have been friends."

"Why couldn't you have had your way?"

Michael doesn't answer, just smiles sadly. That's okay. Adam hadn't expected an answer, not really; whatever game is being played here, he's only a pawn. Pawns don't get answers, only orders.

Releasing Adam's hand, Michael rises to his feet and gestures vaguely at the table. "If you are finished eating, I shall call someone to escort you to your room."

"But you said you wanted to discuss—" Adam swallows thickly. "—our future."

"I did, but there is nothing that needs saying that cannot wait. It is late and you must be weary from travel. It was selfish of me to ask you meet me tonight rather than allow you to seek the comfort of a bed." Michael hesitates a moment, then admits, "However, I cannot regret that our first meeting took place here, in privacy, before the ceremony."

Adam twists the handkerchief in his hands. Sleep would be good. He's lost his appetite again.

When the servant arrives to escort Adam away, Michael stops Adam at the door with a hand on his shoulder and presses Adam's abandoned frockcoat into his arms. "I am not an ogre. I hope you will give me a chance to prove it to you."

* * *

Much later, Adam finds that a bundle of cookies wrapped inside a napkin has been tucked into his coat pocket along with a note.

 _Sleep well_ , it simply reads.

And, surprisingly, he does.

* * *

The sun is only just peeking over the horizon when a veritable army of servants descend upon Adam. He puts up a valiant resistance, groggily batting at their grasping hands and stubbornly clinging to the blankets, but they're a persistent lot; they continue to coax and cajole and make utter nuisances of themselves until Adam finally waves the proverbial white flag of surrender and grudgingly rolls out of bed.

"I hate you all," Adam declares, waspish and unrepentant. The servants are utterly unfazed.

Two men manhandle him onto his feet and into a dressing gown and slippers—and that pretty much sets the tone for the day. From person to person he's passed around, his every move planned and orchestrated and well outside his control. First comes a hasty breakfast, then comes the tailor to fit him for his ceremonial garments, then the priestess to verify his aptitude for bonding, then the healer to determine his mental and physical capacity to safely consummate a bond, then, then, _then_.

Before long it all becomes a chaotic blur in his mind. As the clock counts down to the hour of the ceremony, the world around him seems to speed up. Vertigo washes over him in waves, breaking and receding only to come crashing mercilessly back. It's a wonder that he manages not to be sick all over himself.

Around mid-afternoon, the steady stream of visitors poking and prodding at him trickles off. Adam has no time to feel relieved; that's also when personal preparations step up.

It takes three attendants to strip him out of his usual day-to-day clothes and wrestle him into the steaming bath prepared for him. He tries putting them off, struggling and swearing and promising that _he's a big boy and can bathe himself just fine on his own, thank you very much_ , but they are like a force of nature and refuse to be swayed. They submerse him in the water and sponge him down with scented soaps and shampoo his hair three times before they're satisfied.

They're professionals at least; not one of them speaks much beyond an occasional "if you would, sir." He supposes he has nothing they haven't seen before; that should probably make the ordeal a little less unbearable, but it really doesn't. If things could get worse, he doesn't want to imagine how. They touch him in places no one has ever touched him before and _he despises every minute of it_. Adam nearly expires of humiliation when one attendant matter-of-factly instructs him on how to "prepare" himself for Michael that evening.

By the time he's passed off to the attendants waiting to dry him and slather him with purifying oils to soften the skin, all the fight has gone out of him.

He doesn't even offer a token protest when a matronly woman begins to apply creams and cosmetics to his face or when two girls work at softening the calluses on his hands and feet. Another woman soon arrives to tame his unruly hair with brusque efficiency.

By the time the tailor returns with the newly altered ceremonial garments, Adam has been primped and polished to perfection; the new clothes complete his transformation into something utterly foreign.

The old fashions have largely been abandoned by the greater populace, but they are still favored for ceremonial purposes. Adam, of course, has never had occasion to wear such clothes before.

First he dons the fitted undergarments, then the loose trousers that flare out in an excess of fabric all down his legs to gather again at the fitted ankles, then the billowing shirt that falls nearly to his knees and sports sleeves that flare out much like the trousers and gather at the wrists. A gold silk cord that is probably worth enough to feed a family of four for an entire year is tied around his waist. His arms are then slipped into the elaborate hanging sleeves of the outer robe. The robe is open all down the front and flows down to just above the floor. Every time he moves, the fabric rustles as if caught in a light breeze.

He doesn't recognize his own reflection.

Who is that unfamiliar, winter-pale boy clad all in white? He looks so frightened, raw and young and open in ways Adam has sworn never to be.

"What are you doing?" he whispers.

The boy in the mirror doesn't answer.

* * *

As the sun nears the distant horizon, four temple guards—one representing each of the four temples—arrive to escort Adam out toward the city's northernmost border: there stands the Temple of Engirru, Lord of Fire, who presides over all matters of love and passion.

Tonight Adam and Michael must seek the Fire Lord's blessing. If they are found worthy, they will be given a chance to prove their mettle and forge their union in fire, air, water and earth. If they are found wanting, nothing will ever induce a bond to form between them.

One way or another, this terrible limbo Adam has found himself trapped in will soon meet its end.

As the gods will, so mote it be.

* * *

The temple resembles a palace more than any house of worship Adam has ever seen: all whitewashed stone, tall columns and wide-open spaces. At least the hushed, reverent feel to the place is familiar. It's probably a cheerful sort of place during the daylight hours, when the sun is shining brightly through the windows and the echoing halls are filled with worshippers and supplicants; right now the light is dim and the echoing corridors he's led through are eerily void of life. He sees only a handful of droopy-eyed acolytes and a couple stray priestesses. Everyone else must have retired for the evening.

When Adam's escort turns a corner, he sees Michael flanked by an escort of his own, all of them waiting beside the door to what must be the main chapel—the one most people never get to see. Michael is dressed as Adam is, though the long, loose garments somehow look more natural on him; he is probably required to don ceremonial robes often in his role as Archmage.

Michael doesn't speak when Adam joins him, but he does offer Adam a reassuring smile before waving their escort away and turning to rap three times on the door. The smile does little to calm Adam. It's all he can do not to flee as the door slowly swings open to reveal a young woman clad in a wispy gown of orange and red—Kali, the High Priestess of Fire. She's a beautiful woman with dark, kohl-lined eyes and an aura of strength that could cow the bravest of men. Young as she is, Adam can instantly see why she would be exalted above her peers.

"Who seeks to disturb the Fire Lord's solitude?" Kali demands, the words stern and practiced, but not without a lilt of humor.

"Michael Milton, son of Lord Camael Milton and Lady Rachel Daye," says Michael.

"Adam Milligan, son of Kate Milligan," says Adam and stubbornly refuses to acknowledge any connection to one John Winchester.

After a long moment's pause, the corners of Kali's mouth twitch tellingly, but she smoothly continues, "And what brings you, Lord Milton, and you, Lord Milligan, to my lord's door?"

In unison, Adam and Michael reply, "We seek the Fire Lord's blessing to bond."

"Do you swear to abide by the Fire Lord's judgment, even if you are denied his blessing?"

"We do."

"And are you prepared to prove your worthiness to the Four Gods, if the Fire Lord grants his blessing?"

"We are."

"Then enter and be welcomed," Kali says and beckons them through the door.

Adam hesitates.

Michael lightly rests a large hand at the small of Adam's back, a patient pressure coaxing him forward. The touch is warm, even through his clothes. Adam has to wonder if the man is working some strange magic on him when his sudden spike of terror tapers off to something more manageable. It doesn't feel like magic—at least not like any magic he's ever experienced—but what does he know about any of it, really?

As he steps through the doorway, Adam is immediately overcome by a powerful sense of presence.

The sun has nearly set and the chapel does not seem equipped with gaslights, so the only light comes from the oil lamps inset into the stone walls and the massive fire arching upward from the gleaming gold cradle upon the dais at the head of the chapel. On either side of the cradle of fire are two thrones, three of which are presently occupied by the priestesses representing the gods of Air, Water and Earth.

The High Priestess of Air is a sweet, dainty young thing—younger even than Kali—with dark hair and a round face clad in the cheery yellow of daffodils. There's something childish about her that Adam finds appealing. As he understands it, the Temple of Air, unlike the others, rarely elects a single High Priestess for any length of time. The Children of Air are a flighty lot, keen to travel and explore; taking on the mantle of High Priestess as a permanent fixture is something no one wants—so they share the responsibility, taking turns in the role according to interest and ability. Adam's always thought that was most sensible of them.

The High Priestess of Water, Ellen of House Harvelle, is an elegant, dignified woman in blue. Adam supposes she must be the eldest by a significant margin. She's held her position for nearly fifteen years and it shows in the lines around her mouth and eyes. Rumor has it that she rules over her temple with an iron fist, but she doesn't look much like a tyrant. She reminds Adam a bit of his momma, somehow.

The High Priestess of Earth, Jody Mills, is the second eldest. She's only held her position for a few short years, so Adam hasn't heard much about her beyond the fact that the common farmers swear by her name. She smiles in Adam's direction when she notices him staring and he smiles weakly back.

So. This is the Chapel of the Eternal Fire, the Pyre That Never Dies, the Flame of Truth. If the stories are to be believed, this fire has burned since Haven's foundation—the temple just grew up around it. His momma once told him that if anyone ever told a lie within a hundred paces of the Eternal Fire, he or she would spontaneously combust in an instant. He'd laughed at the time and asked why there weren't more reports of people combusting if that was true, but now he thinks he knows why. He wouldn't dare lie; no one would.

The Fire Lord is here. The gods are watching.

The gentle pressure of Michael's hand reminds Adam to breathe, to move, to follow High Priestess Kali to the base of the dais.

Michael falls to his knees before the dais and touches his forehead to the ground. Adam follows his lead, though he can't help but jerk back up in surprise—just for a moment—at the unusual heat of the stone beneath him. The heat isn't enough to burn, but it's jarring all the same. There's an undercurrent of magic coursing through these stones. Old magic, he thinks. It gives Adam something to focus on as the Fire Priestess begins the ceremony. Something that isn't the frantic beat of his heart or the constant litany of _runrunrun_ whispering in the back of his mind.

Most of the ceremony passes in a numb haze.

He feels like a passenger in his own body. He says all the right words, goes through all the right motions, but it's all so distant somehow.

When Michael finally takes his hand to pledge his troth, Adam looks into his intended bondmate's eyes and knows down to his very bones that this week will end with a union and not a parting.

"—and do you, Adam Milligan, consent to bind yourself to this man for all the days of your life?"

"I do," Adam says.

Is it consent if you have no choice? It must be. The Fire Lord doesn't strike him down for lying, in any case.

* * *

The Fire Lord grants his blessing. Of course he does.

As if this was ever going to end another way.

* * *

After the ceremony, Adam and Michael are escorted to the apartment where they will spend their first night together as bondmates. It's a typical guest apartment—little more than a bedroom and adjacent bathing room—but it's spacious enough as these things go, with a small seating area near the crackling fireplace, a dinette set with a multitude of foodstuffs, and—of course—an enormous bed, draped in blankets of red and gold.

It's the largest bed Adam has ever seen, larger even than the bed in Michael's apartment; five people could easily fit in that bed without ever touching. By the gods—what did the person responsible for designing the thing expect to happen in it? As if that thought isn't horrifying enough, the stand next to the bed is covered with countless vials of oil, tubes of cream, and other items that make Adam blush and shy away from the thought of what could possibly be in its drawers.

Michael clears his throat. When Adam looks at him, he's gratified to find that he's not the only one uncomfortable with all of this. The flush of Michael's cheeks could be from the heat of the room, but it's doubtful. Especially considering how Michael is taking pains to avoid looking in the direction of the bed.

"Um," Michael starts and then clears his throat again. "Maybe we should sit down. I think there are a few things we need to discuss before..." He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"Yes, I suppose we had better," Adam says, grim.

They settle themselves at the dinette, wordlessly positioning their chairs to face away from the proverbial elephant in the room. Michael pours a steaming cup of tea and stares it into submission while Adam plucks a hot roll off a platter and focuses on pulling it apart.

There's an uncanny thrumming at the edge of his senses. He's not sure whether that's him sensing the charms someone has set on the food to keep everything fresh or a side-effect of the temporary bond as it settles. Maybe it's just nerves. It could be. He's never been this scared before.

"You did very well this evening," Michael says.

Adam shrugs.

"Zachariah instructed you well."

That earns a snort of derision. Is this guy for real? Has he ever _met_ Zachariah?

"Did he explain to you what would be asked of you during the trial period?"

"He didn't explain anything to me at all. He just handed me a book and told me to try not to disgrace myself."

"I see," Michael says—and there's a trace of fond exasperation in his tone that catches Adam's attention. Michael's eyes are crinkled around the corners, one side of his mouth quirked in a lopsided approximation of a smile. "I can't say that I'm surprised. He's always been a bit difficult."

"The man is an ass."

"That he is," Michael agrees. "But he's also loyal, stubborn, and an excellent negotiator and battle-mage. I knew I could trust him to find you and deliver you safely to me, if nothing else. The book was sufficient to see you through the blessing at least."

"It didn't say much about the trial period. Just that we would spend a night and a day at each temple and that we would have to 'prove' our compatibility to each god." Adam's voice drops to a low mumble and he directs his focus back to his mangled roll. "It also said that we would be required to consummate the bond... physically."

"Yes, that is the sum of it." All trace of good humor is gone from Michael's voice. "There won't have been much detail on the trials as they vary from pair to pair. Some trials are very complex, others are very simple. Rumor has it your brother Sam—"

"He's not my brother."

The silence is practically audible.

Finally, Michael says, "As you say. I daren't hazard a guess as to what our own trials may be, but they will likely be of middling complexity. We've only just met and we've never worked together before, so the gods will be looking for proof that we can _learn_ to be a team. The fact that you have yet to be trained will be taken into consideration, so don't worry on that count."

Right. Because telling a man who never learned to swim that he's about to be thrown off the boat and into the sea _not to worry_ ever actually works.

Though it's not the trials he's worried about, not really.

"What about the consummation?"

This time the pause is more than just awkward; it's weighted, considering.

"Have you ever been intimate with anyone before?"

"No," Adam says. In the periphery of his vision, he can make out Michael's expression, so concerned, so kind and so _pitying_.

"No one at all? No man? No woman?"

"No."

"Have you any experience at all?"

First taking a moment to wet his lips and gather his thoughts, Adam admits, "Yes. There was a girl I liked. We kissed a few times and she—Um."

"Yes?" Michael prompts.

Adam flushes and bows his head low. "She let me touch her breast once."

"I see," Michael says—and the words are hoarse and strange. His expression is equally strange. For reasons unknown, Adam's blush burns deeper.

"And you? What of your experience?"

Michael coughs. "I have... Well, there have been a few lovers over the years."

Of course there had been. Had Dean been one of those lovers? What had Dean thought of sharing his intended bondmate with others?

"I guess it's just as well that one of us knows how this is supposed to work."

"Perhaps," Michael says noncommittally. "Do you know the mechanics of it, at least?"

"Yeah: Tab A goes into Slot B," Adam snarks, bristling. "I'm inexperienced, not an idiot."

Michael quirks an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Forgive me. Since you're such an expert, let's move on to the most fundamental question: do you prefer to provide Tab A or Slot B?"

Oh.

He—

He hadn't really thought of that. In fact, he'd worked very hard to _not_ think about that. Mostly because he hadn't thought—

"You're giving me a choice?"

Michael nods, brows furrowing quizzically. "Certainly. Did you think I wouldn't? There are no rules regarding sexual positions. I generally prefer to take the dominant role, but I'm willing to make concessions. I want to make this as easy for you as possible. First times are rarely _good_ , but they should never be unpleasant."

Tonight Adam will be losing his virginity to a stranger. A stranger who happens to be a distant relation and looks like the spitting image of the father Adam has never met. He's pretty sure nothing short of some _really_ powerful drugs could make this first time anything but unpleasant.

Still, Adam takes a minute to consider his options. To think about what it might be like to take back a little control, about _Michael_ under _him_. Warmth curls low in his belly and he bites his lip against the unexpected surge of _want_. He could have that. Michael would _let him_.

Desire is quickly replaced by repulsion—with himself, mostly.

He can't want this. He can't want _Michael_.

Better to just ride things out than to—Well.

Swallowing convulsively, Adam replies, "I think you had better, er, take charge. So to speak. I... wouldn't know what to do. Not really."

Michael's expression is dubious bordering on suspicious, as if he senses there's something Adam's not saying, but he takes Adam at his word.

The silence that descends after that isn't really a silence at all. There's weight to it, like an unspoken promise (or maybe a threat).

* * *

Adam is practically quivering with anxiety by the time they have each taken a turn in the washroom to refresh themselves and change into the nightclothes provided for them.

Bitterly, he acknowledges the ridiculousness of bothering to change at all, when he'll just be stripping off again in a few minutes. He briefly entertains the idea of walking out of the washroom starkers, if only for the shock value. Michael's mien of calm has revealed a few cracks here and there; what would it take to shatter it completely?

Probably more than a little nudity.

Michael is sitting on the edge of the bed when Adam emerges, inspecting the label on one of the bottles from the nightstand. Gods above. He's really going to do this.

Adam shifts nervously from foot to foot. He wonders if the door is locked.

Michael looks up and sets the bottle back on the table before patting the space the space beside him on the bed in invitation. There's something strained about his smile and the stiff set of his shoulders that Adam finds gratifying.

Sitting close enough to feel the heat of Michael's body beside him, Adam takes a shaky breath. "So, now what?"

A large hand curves along Adam's cheek, coaxing him to meet Michael's gaze. This close up, those eyes are impossibly blue—striking in an almost inhuman way, irises stained with the echo of magic. Adam swears there is a pattern written there, a weave just waiting to be deciphered. Michael leans in, so close that his breath mingles with Adam's, so close that the fresh scent of his cologne fills his nose.

Michael murmurs, "First, a kiss. Then we shall see. Just try to relax, yes? I promise not to hurt you."

A kiss. Yes. Obviously.

Adam's tongue flicks nervously out to wet his lips. Michael's eyes follow the motion with intent, but he doesn't lean in any closer—not until Adam manages a small nod of assent.

Michael's mouth is on his in an instant.

Adam closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe.

Kissing Michael is nothing like kissing Lizzie. Those kisses had also started out tentative and slow, sure, but they had always been accompanied with a giddy sort of joy that Adam had never experienced before. They'd been friends long before they'd ever been anything else, so neither of them had much worried about whether or not they were doing it right; in fact, they'd both been quite silly about the whole affair, knocking their noses together and giggling against one another's lips. It had all been quite innocent, really.

There's nothing innocent about the hot press of Michael's mouth or about way one hand rests bracingly at the back of Adam's neck while the other tentatively works its way beneath Adam's nightshirt to stroke over the bare skin of his belly until Adam quivers and gasps, giving Michael the opening he needs to slip his tongue past Adam's lips and _inside_. And that's a weird feeling. He tenses with the need to pull away, but instead he fists his hands in the duvet beneath him and parts his lips a little wider.

And then Michael is gone—the kiss abruptly ended, both hands withdrawn.

Baffled, Adam slowly opens his eyes to see Michael studying him, looking deeply unhappy.

"What is it? Did I do something wrong?"

"No," Michael sighs. "But this isn't going to work. I think that's quite far enough for tonight."

"But why?"

"Because you aren't anywhere near ready for this."

"I'm not a child! I can handle this. I know my duty."

"And I know mine!" Michael's voice comes out as a hiss, eyes flashing. "There are many things I am willing to do for the benefit of my country. Rape is not one of them!"

Adam reels back as if he'd been struck. Watches as Michael drops his face into his hands.

"Okay," Adam whispers. "Not tonight."

What more is there to say? He's relieved. He really, truly is. But he's conflicted, too. This isn't something he expected. Michael has just taken the rule book and tossed it out the proverbial window. What is he supposed to make of that?

* * *

That night Adam curls up on the side of the bed farthest from his bondmate ( _gods, his bondmate!_ ) and focuses on the thrumming at the periphery of his senses until his mind is blessedly empty of all else. He doesn't think about Michael.


	3. Part II

The noise is so sudden, so loud, so cacophonous that Adam doesn't immediately realize he's awake—that he's tangled in sweat-damp sheets, that his eyes are open even though he can't see anything beyond the white spots of _painpainpain_ , that the hands clamped over his ears are his own _and it's not helping at all_. That noise. That horrible, inescapable noise. It's like the screaming of babes, the clash of armies, the cracking of thunder—all of it and worse combined together in a hellish symphony _inside his head_.

Nothing like that should exist outside the realm of nightmares.

Adam can't make his mouth form words, can't call out, though he thinks he may be screaming.

Make it stop. Make it stop. Somebody, please, oh gods. Make. It. Stop.

The noise, the noise, the noise, _it hurts_. It scalds like _fire_.

He's burning, burning up from the inside out, flames licking at his skin like jagged knives. The noise, the pain, the noise, the noise, no no no—

There are hands on him. Cold hands, yes, please, so cold. Cold like the rare bite of ice against his skin on a hot summer's day, hands that press against his cheeks before disappearing ( _no, come back, come back!_ ) and then they're under his shirt ( _nice, yes, please touch me, don't stop_ ) and then the shirt is gone and he's pressed flush against a cold body, those hands trailing blessed relief up and down his spine and _yes_.

Slowly, the noise recedes and Adam's ability to think returns. When his vision finally clears, Adam finds himself staring into his bondmate's eyes, Michael's face a mere handbreadth from his own.

Michael's pallor is chalk-white, drained of all color but for the wide line of red stretching diagonally over one cheek—the beginnings of a bruise. His breaths are coming in quick, shallow pants like he's just run a race. The soapy wet tuffs of hair sticking out every which way tell Adam exactly where Michael had come running from. Which leads Adam to realize that he's lying in the arms of a man who is both dripping wet and bare-ass naked.

Adam squeaks manfully.

Michael frowns for a moment, then seems to realize the problem and pulls a blanket over the exposed curve of his rear. "Better?"

Adam nods. Swallows. Breathes. Tries to ignore the fact that they're both bare-chested and clinging to one another.

As if in possession of a mind of its own, one of Adam's hands reaches up to rest lightly over the bruise on Michael's cheek. "What happened to your face?" Adam's voice is nothing but a raspy croak.

Michael huffs a humorless laugh. "I took a bit of a tumble in my haste to reach you. Slipped and knocked my head on the sink."

"Oh."

Michael pulls Adam closer, tucking his face into Adam's hair. His lips are right next to Adam's ear, so he has no trouble making out the words when Michael whispers, "I'm so sorry. I was afraid something like this might happen."

"What do you mean?"

"That sound. It was a warning."

"A warning?"

Michael hesitates, reluctant. "What you need to understand is that vessels are very rare and bonds between mages and vessels are rarer still. It's not unusual for a generation to have only one pairbond—or even none at all. Those bonds that _are_ established are usually arranged many years in advance of the fact."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that there are still things about the bonding process that we don't know—and the consequences of failing to immediately consummate the bond happen to be among them. Our circumstances are unprecedented. At least in recent history."

Adam's breath hitches. "So, what just happened? That was..."

"That was the result of an unstable bond. Consummation is intended to stabilize the bond. I knew that, but I had no idea what that _meant_." Michael's arms tighten around Adam. "I'm sorry. This is my fault."

"I guess that means we have no choice but to consummate the bond this morning," Adam says flatly.

"No. As long as we remain consistently in contact with one another, I think we'll be fine. We were fine throughout the night, weren't we? There was a bit of a warning hum building up before we retired last night—" The thrumming sensation. So it _was_ the bond after all. "—But it died out once you cuddled up to me."

What?

Adam latches on to the last part of that statement. He has never heard anything so absurd! "I did _not_ cuddle up to you!"

Michael's body is shaking against his. It takes Adam a second to realize the lying bastard is laughing. Laughing!

"Adam. Which side of the bed are we on?"

Suspicious, Adam says, "The right side. The side closest to the door."

"And on which side of the bed did you fall asleep?"

Adam thinks about this.

His heart sinks.

"I hate you," he sulks.

He can practically hear the wide grin in Michael's voice as he says, "I know. That does not change the fact that you are, I believe the phrase is, a 'stealth cuddler'."

That's it. Adam doesn't give a damn about good manners or propriety or the natural pecking order or anything else. Not anymore.

He knees Michael in the groin. There's not much force behind it—they're too close together and his legs are still tangled in the sheets. But Michael's indignant squawk makes him feel better anyway.

* * *

Adam isn't sure how long he and Michael continue to hold each other before they both feel settled enough to let go, but eventually they climb out of bed and set about preparing for the day's coming trial. By mutual (if unspoken) agreement, they are careful to maintain skin-to-skin contact—usually with a hand on a wrist or a shoulder. No sense in tempting fate.

The soap has mostly dried on his skin and in his hair, leaving behind a tacky residue, so Michael insists on bathing before anything else. The mechanics of this require some forethought: actually sharing a bath would be unspeakably awkward and neither of them cares to risk perching on the narrow edge of the tub while the other does his thing. Eventually they decide to place a chair from the dining table beside the tub.

Adam is sure his face is beet-red during the whole ordeal. Keeping a hand on Michael's shoulder during Michael's turn is a maddening experience. No matter how fiercely he squeezes his eyes shut, there is no escaping the knowledge that there is a naked stranger under his hand.

Then it's Adam's turn in the bath—and, gods, the whole time he's just _mortified_. Because his traitorous libido is acting up and all it would take is _one glance_ and then Michael would _see_. It's a special sort of hell. Michael keeps his face turned respectfully away and even occupies himself with reciting sums, of all things, but Adam is too scared to take his eyes away from Michael for even an instant.

The fact that Michael remains mostly naked, covered only by a thin, white bathrobe doesn't help much. The robe barely reaches to mid-thigh. And it gapes open in the front. It's obscene.

Although they've only been provided with fresh sets of the white ceremonial robes rather than proper clothes, it is an incredible relief when they are both finally dressed.

* * *

Breakfast is an exercise in caution. And in dexterity, since Adam is forced to eat with his left hand, his right having been commandeered by Michael.

"This holding hands thing is going to get old really fast," Adam grumbles.

"Yes," Michael agrees.

* * *

The acolyte who comes to fetch them doesn't look directly at them. Adam doesn't think anything of it until he notices that her reticence is, in fact, the rule and not the exception.

They pass many people as they wind their way through the corridors of the inner sanctum. No one returns Adam's cautious smiles of greeting. No one speaks to them. The only acknowledgement they seem to merit is hastily averted gazes. Adam is starting to feel invisible, like he's become a social leper or something. It has to be part of the bonding tradition, but it's nothing his book had warned him about.

Adam tugs lightly on Michael's hand and beckons him to lean down so Adam can murmur quietly into his ear, "Why won't anyone look at us?"

Just as quietly, Michael explains, "Because candidates for bonding are to be sequestered from outside influences as much as possible. From now until the trial ends, only the High Priestesses are permitted to look upon us or speak to us without due cause. The others see the white robes and know that we are to be as ghosts to them."

Does the aristocracy have nothing better to do than devise stranger and stranger traditions to inflict on each other? He will never understand these people.

Adam is glad when the acolyte shows them into what appears to be a private study and disappears, leaving them alone with High Priestess Kali. Her familiar face and welcoming smile go a long way toward smoothing Adam's prickled feathers.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she says. "Are you prepared to begin your first trial?"

"We are."

"Excellent. As near strangers the two of you have come to us, each of you with your own histories, your own knowledge, and your own strengths. If you are sincere in your wish to make a lasting partnership, then you must know how to share these things with one another. Therefore, your first trial is this: you each must demonstrate an ability to teach and to learn. You each will identify a skillset or range of knowledge that you possess, but your partner does not. You will each take a turn leading a lesson and a turn absorbing that lesson." The priestess gestures widely with her arms. "You are free to make use of my study and all within it. Should you require other resources, you may send an acolyte to fetch anything you need or ask one to direct you to where those resources may be found. You are free to venture anywhere on the temple grounds as necessity dictates. Have you any questions?"

"No, priestess," Michael replies.

Adam shakes his head mutely, though he has many, the foremost being: what on earth could he— _a servant_ —possibly teach a man of Michael's rank and power? How to properly make up a bed? How to scrub a greasy pot until it shines?

"Then proceed as you will," the priestess says and heads toward the door. "You have until dusk to complete this trial. The gods are with you. Good luck."

As the door clicks shut behind her, Michael turns to Adam, a speculative gleam in his eyes.

"How do you feel about having your first magic lesson?"

Adam sighs.

* * *

As a vessel, Adam is incapable of performing magic in the usual way. He can't set a hearth alight with a word, condense water from the air to fill a cup, or perform any of the other small miracles mages do without thinking. He can't call forth the elements or bend them to his will.

What he _can_ do is sense the magic around him. With considerable training, he will be able to tap into that magic, recognize the weave of it, collect it inside himself, and channel it for Michael's use. More importantly, he'll be able to alter the flow of power as necessary—something that could mean the difference between life and death for a mage engaged in great workings. More than one mage has been swept into Death's arms when their control failed, often leaving a great deal of destruction in their wake.

Vessels are primarily a failsafe.

All the children of Haven are educated on the consequences of mages who lose control, of magic released unchecked: forests burn, crops perish, pestilence spreads, seas rage, and winds swirl into terrible columns of fury. The greater the working, the greater the disaster when something goes wrong. Knowing that he may one day be the only thing preventing utter ruin from being visited upon the kingdom isn't at all comforting. Especially since Adam apparently can't even _breathe_ right.

"You are too tense," Michael says again. The fact that his tone is just as calm and patient as the first dozen times he'd said it sorely tests Adam's self-control.

"I'm trying the best I can."

Michael bites his lower lip and leans back in his chair to consider Adam. He doesn't remove the hand presently circling Adam's wrist; in fact, his thumb absently strokes back and forth over the pulse point—and that? Not soothing. At all. (Actually, it's sort of freaking him out.)

"Adam, you need to stop _thinking_." Michael reaches out to rest his free hand over Adam's heart—and he must be doing something, because a shiver goes through Adam and suddenly his muscles are unclenching, and he's swaying forward a little, eyes fluttering closed as Michael speaks. "That's right, close your eyes. Imagine that you are sitting alone at the edge of a pond after a storm. The wind is still whipping around you. The pond is murky with stirred sediment. Just watch and breathe. Imagine the wind dying down to a whisper. Inhale. Exhale. Watch as the murk recedes, as the sediment settles at the bottom of the pool. Watch as the water clears. You are calm like that pool, your mind clear and unworried. Inhale. Exhale. Yes, just like that. How do you feel?"

"Good," Adam hears himself say, dreamy and distant. "Peaceful."

"Cleave to that feeling. Now tell me, do you sense my magic?"

Magic? Yes, yes—that's right. Magic. Michael's magic. It's—

Adam frowns down at the rippling pond, at the ribbons of color reflecting off the water. Magic.

"Yes. I sense it. What are you doing to me?"

"Good. You are doing beautifully. Do you sense the threads of my magic, Adam?"

"Wh-what?"

"The threads, Adam, the threads."

The threads, yes, yes. The threads, the colors. The pretty ribbons dancing in the light: green, blue, red, yellow. Weaving all together, weaving a net, weaving him _in_.

"What are you _doing_ to me?"

Adam's heart beats calmly under Michael's hand, but the breeze around Adam strengthens, the ripples on the water growing in size and frequency.

"Adam, stay calm. Don't worry, I've got you. Now tell me: do you sense the threads? Can you identify the parts of the magic?"

The magic, the threads, the net—the net is like a cage. No, no—it _is_ a cage, a prison to hold him here. He has to get out, has to escape, this isn't right, isn't real—

"Adam? Adam, can you hear me?"

The breeze rages into a full blown wind, which gusts past Adam and across the water with angry force. The pool stirs to life, becoming murky and tempestuous once more. But he can still make out a reflection off the water, can see the net unraveling, the ribbons falling away, and then—

—He opens his eyes with a choked gasp and punches Michael straight in the nose.

With a formless cry, Michael's hands fly to his nose. Blood drips though Michael's fingers, down his chin.

Adam feels vindicated.

In the time it takes for Michael to stem the flow of blood, the tell-tale warning thrum of the bond returns. Adam fancies that there's something agitated about its tune this time, but it's dim enough to ignore. He has no regrets.

Michael, it seems, is in no mood to deal with the bond on top of everything else. He discards the handkerchief he'd begged off a passing junior priestess with a murderous scowl to grab Adam's hand with aggressive force, demanding, "Was that really necessary?"

Adam glares spitefully back, lips curled into a sneer. "I don't know. You tell me. You're the one who decided that it was okay to _mind-rape me_. Is that sort of thoughtless intrusion common amongst mages, or is it just you?"

The air is positively crackles with Michael's frustration. "I didn't 'mind-rape' you! That was a simple relaxation technique: one often used to ease young apprentices into the right mindset. Our healers even use a variation of it to calm panicked patients. It's perfectly safe, perfectly acceptable!"

Every lamp in the room flickers in punctuation; Adam eyes them apprehensively, wondering what it will take for Michael to lose control. He's not going to apologize, not when he's in the right.

"You altered my mental state without warning and without waiting for permission! How is that 'acceptable'? You can't do that! You can't just—" Adam breaks off, purses his lips, and then quietly says, "There may be few things in my life that I have control over, but my mind ought to be one of them. Don't do that again."

Slowly, understanding dawns and Michael's fury softens into contrition. The lamps stop flickering.

"Very well," Michael says. "I swear to you that I will not perform magic on you again without first explaining my intent and obtaining your consent. Please forgive my thoughtlessness." Michael smiles a humorlessly. "I find myself often needing to apologize to you. I wish to do right by you, but it seems that I am continuously failing."

Adam nods curtly, and then admits, "I did see the weave of magic."

Is it foolish to let Michael off the hook so easily? He's still a bit shaken, still angry. Michael had made a serious lapse in judgment. But the problem seems to have stemmed from an unfortunate case of culture clash. If he were to withhold forgiveness... Well, his momma taught him better than that.

"Yes," Michael says, making a soft noise of amusement. "I rather thought you had. How else could you have pulled apart the threads of my spell? It was a messy, hasty job—but impressive for a first attempt. You are quite gifted."

"Yeah?" Adam says, feeling strangely pleased by the praise.

"Yes. Shall we resume the lesson? With any luck, you'll manage to sense the details of the weave better now that you know what to look for."

And the lesson _does_ proceed better after that. He remembers the way his breathing had evened out, the way his body had settled, the way he'd severed himself from his thoughts and achieved an altered state of awareness. With careful guidance and a few false starts, Adam manages to reach that altered state on his own—or something very like it. In his mind's eye, he sees the aura of magic around Michael, sees the tendrils of power he weaves into small spells. It's interesting to see how the elements mix with each spell: some spells require only one or two elements, others call on all. The balance of the elements fluctuates, which sometimes impacts the patterns in the weaves dramatically.

Adam is unable to repeat his earlier success with influencing a weave. All he manages to do when he tries is give himself a headache. Michael seems pretty pleased with his progress regardless.

"Being able to _see_ the weave and identify the patterns and the individual threads is half the battle. Once our bond is official and you've had a chance to settle into life in the capitol, you'll be enrolled in some real lessons and meet with other vessels. You'll be tapping into magical workings and channeling in no time! For now, I think we can count the lesson as a success."

Adam wishes he could share in Michael's enthusiasm. Mostly he's just relieved that the lesson is finally over.

* * *

After eating (or, in Adam's case, _ravenously devouring_ ) their mid-day meal, Adam is at last forced to come up with something that he can teach Michael. He'd initially shied away from introducing the man to the more menial skills required of a servant, but after Michael's stunt that afternoon, Adam is feeling vengeful enough to renege that decision. He has half a mind to teach Michael the proper way to polish silverware or—better yet!—muck out a stable. Or laundry! Scrubbing laundry clean has always been one of his least favorite chores.

Except punishing Michael with such tasks would be pretty pointless when he'd essentially be punishing himself too. What he needs is a task that a man of Michael's status would find beneath his dignity, but that Adam finds perfectly ordinary, maybe even enjoyable...

There's really only one option.

"I noticed a few cookery books in your study," Adam murmurs speculatively. "Do you know your way around a kitchen?"

Michael's shakes his head. "Uh, no. Not precisely. I've—Well, I have a bit of a sweet tooth. I've made a few attempts at baking cakes and cookies, but those attempts were all dismal failures."

Excellent.

Adam grins impishly. "Well, then, I guess I'll have to teach you how to bake!"

Michael's horror is positively delicious. "Adam, I am not sure you know what you are getting yourself into..."

* * *

A little more than an hour later, Adam is beginning to have an idea of what he's gotten himself into—and the joke is definitely on him.

Upon request, the acolyte who had been left to serve them had led them to an unoccupied kitchen. Adam assumes it's reserved for those special occasions in which the main kitchen would prove insufficient. Like festival days. A quick survey of the cupboards and icebox had proved that the kitchen was well-stocked and so the acolyte had been dismissed and Adam had set his mind to teaching Michael the fine art of baking cookies.

It should have been easy.

 _Children_ could do it.

Whatever mishaps Michael had suffered on his own, surely it would be impossible to replicate them with Adam glued to his side, supervising his every move.

Adam's momma has always warned him against overconfidence.

"How," Adam starts, eyes wide with astonished dismay, "did you manage to set the cookies _on fire_?" Quick spellwork had managed to put the fire out before it could become a real danger, but the cookie sheet is still steaming, scorched black with chunks of char where a dozen golden, crumbly cookies should be. The sheet hadn't even been in the oven that long.

"I'm sorry," Michael says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He looks like a sulky five-year-old who has just been chastised by his mother. "I thought the fire ought to be a little hotter. I like my cookies crispier than most people."

Good grief.

How had Michael managed to coax the fire higher without Adam noticing? Wait. Mage. And Michael has been pretty good about shielding his magic from Adam.

Frowning, Adam rubs his thumb over Michael's knuckles and considers his options.

"Alright," he says. "We're going to try this again. We're going to let the oven cool to a more reasonable heat, mix up a new batch of dough—and you're going to promise _not to mess with the fire_. Alright?"

Michael nods.

The next few hours are impossibly more disastrous than the first.

The first batch had primarily been a demonstration. Adam had collected, measured, and mixed the ingredients himself according to the cookery book he'd found in a cupboard, explaining the best tools to use, what one ought to do when substitutions were necessary, how to make too-dry dough softer or too-battery dough thicker, and so on and so forth. Michael hadn't had much of a hand in the process beyond sliding the baking sheet into the oven.

This time Adam steps back and lets Michael take the lead. And, as it turns out, Michael's penchant for setting things on fire isn't the only reason his previous attempts at baking had failed.

Every time Adam glances away for so much as a second he turns back to find that Michael has added too much of one ingredient, too little of another, or even added the wrong ingredient altogether! One minute everything will be going smoothly, Michael doing everything according to instruction; Adam will start to feel a little confident in their success, will maybe glance absentmindedly through the cookery book or out the window—and that's that. Suddenly he'll be jumping in to perform damage control.

They have to discard four batches entirely before they manage to get anything back into the oven.

Another two batches are burned.

One batch becomes nothing more than a sticky mess.

Three more batches _look_ okay, but are positively inedible.

"Did you put _salt_ in this instead of _sugar_?" Adam chokes, eyes watering, spitting desperately into the sink.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I told you that I'm hopeless."

Michael, of course, looks more and more dejected with each failure.

Yelling at him is like yelling at a puppy who's chewed your slippers: Adam is left feeling like a complete berk. He _can't_ be angry, not really.

They attempt one last batch.

When Michael pulls the sheet out of the oven, they both look at its contents askance, without hope. The contents aren't burned, they aren't sticky, but they don't much resemble cookies either. The balls Michael had rolled must have been too big: as they'd spread, they sort of merged together to form one big, uneven _thing_. It's not pretty at all.

But it doesn't have to be pretty to taste good, right?

With more bravado than Adam actually feels, he sticks his fork into the mass and scoops a mouthful cautiously into his mouth. Chews. Blinks. Swallows.

It needs to cool yet—it's really too hot and too soft at the moment. But.

"You know," Adam marvels, "I think you may have done it. This tastes wonderful!"

Michael looks poleaxed. "Really? You're not just saying that?"

Adam scoops another mouthful onto his fork and holds it out for Michael to sample. Michael still looks dubious, but he leans down to accept the offering—and. Wow.

This is sort of intimate, isn't it?

The joy Michael radiates as it sinks in that, yes, he has succeeded blows Adam's thoughts away. All Adam can do is grin back, so damn proud.

Michael's mouth on his is sugar-sweet.

* * *

It's hard to hold a grudge against a man you've seen walking around with a smear of flour on his nose.

* * *

They don't talk about the kiss, but the ghost of it lingers between them. As dusk begins to fall, Kali seeks them out to send them on their way. When she enters the kitchen, they are both sitting at the table, slumped face down on the tabletop with a mostly demolished sheet of would-be cookies between them.

When Adam looks up, her eyes are fixed on their clasped hands, her expression inscrutable.

* * *

Eight temple guards them escort them to the city's western border, where the Temple of Enlil, Lord of Air, is tucked high in the mountains. Adam has never cared for heights, so he's too busy trying not to think of the increasing altitude or the narrowness of the mountain to appreciate the view out the carriage window. He's heard that the Air Temple is the smallest of the four temples and it's no wonder; petitioners would have to be pretty desperate or else have nerves of steel to travel so high!

"It's not as bad as all that," Michael laughs. "The air mages have cast so many spells on the road over the years that you couldn't fall from it even if you intentionally leapt off the edge. You would only be buffered back with nary a bruise to show for your trouble."

"Yeah?"

Michael shrugs with exaggerated nonchalance. "Spells have been known to fail, of course. It is conceivable that the driver might lose control of the carriage and send us careening through the barriers to our messy doom. It may not have happened yet, but that doesn't mean it never will. Come to think of it, we're probably overdue for an accident of that nature..."

Adam grits his teeth and glowers.

Michael laughs. "I'm sorry. It's just that you're very easy to tease. If it would help, I could weave a calming spell around you?"

Adam is about to refuse (he's not _that_ weak) when the carriage lurches unexpectedly and suddenly Adam isn't just holding Michael's hand. He's hanging off Michael's arm like the bawdiest of tavern wenches, pressing up so close that if he were any closer he'd be in Michael's lap. He'd blush if he could, but all the blood has drained from his face.

"Are you alright?"

"No," Adam admits. "I think I'll take you up on that offer for a calming spell."

Adam flinches instinctively as Michael weaves the spell and casts it over him, but the spell only tingles a little as it settles. It's not nearly as invasive as the last spell Michael had cast and so he allows himself to sink into it. He gets the sense that if he were truly unwilling to succumb, it wouldn't work at all.

He dozes peacefully for the remainder of the carriage ride, stirring to full wakefulness only when the carriage has stilled and Michael presses two fingers to Adam's forehead to dispel the weaving.

* * *

The halls of the Air Temple are already quiet as they're led to their quarters for the night—quieter even than the Fire Temple had been. Adam supposes this makes sense, considering how the Air Priestesses are known for their wandering ways.

If he had been born a woman, he might have considered dedicating himself to the Air Temple. A tetherless existence sounds rather nice.

* * *

Dinner is a strange affair. Although Adam and Michael have become adept at maintaining skin-to-skin contact, anyone who has found themselves forced to eat one-handed knows that it can be a miserable challenge, especially when utensils are required. Michael comes up with a solution that opens a whole new bag of weird: he instructs Adam to remove his shoes and socks and then rests one of his own bare feet over the top of one of Adam's under the table.

They've been touching nearly nonstop all day; he'd thought himself pretty well desensitized to it. There is no reason why simply touching their feet together should be any more startling than holding hands. But. There's something unspeakably intimate about it.

Adam's fears his heart may beat right out of his chest.

* * *

Michael proposes a test to determine how long their bond will allow them to go without touching one another before it starts raging against them. Throughout the day they'd taken periodic breaks—a minute or two here, a minute or two there—since there were _some_ things no gentleman wished to do with an audience, no matter the risk. The thrumming had always returned, low and insistent, but it had never come close to the level it had been that morning.

"We've been pretty consistent about maintaining contact throughout the day. Perhaps the bond has settled a little?"

Neither of them point out the incontrovertible fact that if they cannot manage to last longer than ten minutes without touching, the bond will have to be consummated that night, regardless of any personal desires.

* * *

They manage to hold out a little more than an hour before the thrum becomes too irritating to ignore—but there is no sudden spike, no mind-shattering pain.

"I think we'll be alright," Michael decides.

* * *

As the clock ticks closer to bedtime, Adam's mind begins to drift more and more to the memory of the kiss Michael had stolen that afternoon (the kiss Adam had allowed him to steal).

Will Michael want to kiss him again tonight? Will he want to touch Adam? Will he want to finish what they'd started last night and have done with it?

They don't _have_ to do anything. But.

Would it really be so awful if they did?

* * *

Adam goggles fixedly at the chiseled lines of Michael's exposed chest, the butterflies in his stomach swarming into a chaotic mass of dread. "You're, ah. You're not wearing a shirt."

"And you'll need to remove yours. We were lucky last night. It may not spell instant punishment if we stop touching during the night, but we still ought to maintain as much skin-to-skin contact as possible."

Adam swallows convulsively, fingering the buttons of his nightshirt. Michael just looks at him expectantly. The space beside him on the bed is open, the blankets pulled back in invitation.

"So... You don't want to..."

Inquisitive, Michael cocks his head to the side. "Do _you_ want to?"

Adam chews at his bottom lip.

"You're not sure," Michael concludes, "which is answer enough."

"So, what? We're just going to ... cuddle?" This last word tastes sour in Adam's mouth.

A moment's hesitation, and then: "Actually, I was hoping you would also allow me to kiss you again."

Reflexively, Adam's eyes flicker to Michael's mouth. The other man's lips are moist with freshly applied balm. He can't help remembering how Michael's lips had tasted last night and earlier that day.

Oh. That's. Maybe. Yeah, that would be.

Strangled, Adam says, "Alright," and, gods, he's playing with fire.

Adam climbs into bed beside Michael anyway—and he doesn't wait for Michael to make the first move. He's not a blushing damsel. He's not some innocent that needs to be treated with kid gloves. Kissing isn't anything new to him. He likes kissing; there's no shame in that. Enjoying a few kisses doesn't have to mean anything.

It's easier than Adam expects to cup one of Michael's stubble-rough cheeks and slot their mouths together. Michael responds with a soft noise of encouragement, his large hands coming to rest on Adam's hips. The angle is awkward, what with them sitting side-by-side, propped up against the headboard, but somehow it's still better than the night before.

There's no hurry in this kiss, no rush to deepen things, no end game to work toward. The kiss itself is the goal. Michael seems content to let Adam set the pace, slow and leisurely, accepting a series of close-mouthed kisses and responding with a few of his own. Gradually, Adam starts to feel braver, more confident, so he improvises a little; he nips cautiously at Michael's bottom lip, which earns a snort of amusement and a nip back.

This is good. Fun, even. Adam could continue like this all night. Only he's a little curious. And he's feeling brazen enough to ask for what he wants. Drawing back, Adam tries to say, "Last night you slipped your tongue into my mouth as you kissed me; I think I want you to try that again," only he finds it's impossible to string words together with Michael looking at him with pupils blown wide and lips swollen red. What he actually says is a garbled, "Last night... You... Your tongue..."

Mind-reading must be among of Michael's talents, because he understands. His grip on Adam's hips tightens for a moment. Then he seems to melt forward, closing the distance to slip his tongue between Adam's parted lips, licking into Adam's mouth, lazy and wet. It's still weird. Intimate. But his pulse is racing now. There's a hummingbird in his chest.

Tentative, Adam slides his tongue along Michael's and, upon earning an encouraging moan, _lets go_.

He doesn't know how long they continue on like that. Michael keeps making these choked-off noises whenever Adam does something unexpected, something that Michael likes; each of those noises spurs Adam forward. He never knew kissing could make him feel like this: sensual and powerful. He wants to unravel all the things that make Michael weak with pleasure, all his tells.

Michael seems to want to know the same of Adam, though something about the careful way he holds himself speaks of controlled self-restraint. This isn't really a problem until _Michael tries to stop kissing Adam_ , which is just not on. Every time his mouth leaves Adam's, Adam reclaims it without any thought beyond _I feel good_ and _I want more_ and _I don't want this to stop (possibly ever)_.

Eventually Michael wises up and slips a hand between their mouths to stave off Adam's assault.

Adam's thoughts are hazy. It takes a minute or two for him to notice that not only are they both flushed and breathing heavily, but somehow Adam has gone from sitting beside Michael to straddling Michael's lap. And. There's. Um, they're both a little ... excited.

"Ah," Adam says dumbly.

"Yes, 'ah'," Michael expels on a sigh.

* * *

They take another "break" from one another before bed that night, each taking a turn in the washroom to ... calm down.

Adam's not sure the break does either of them any good.

He says nothing about the suspicious hardness where Michael's groin presses against him from behind as they settle down to sleep. Michael, in turn, says nothing when they both wake in the middle of the night to discover that Adam has just rubbed one off against Michael's hip. They just move to the other side of the bed, away from the wet spot.

Adam is a teenager. These things happen.

* * *

Adam and Michael are eating breakfast (and fastidiously avoiding looking at each other while trying to appear as though they are _not_ , in fact, doing just that) when, without so much as a warning knock, a priestess throws the door to their suite open and marches up to the head of the table and fists her hands on her hips.

"Oh, drat," she pouts, "you're dressed. I'd hoped to catch you at an inopportune moment. Mid-coitus, maybe. You're newlyweds; you should be fucking on every available surface, trials be damned!"

Adam and Michael stare wordlessly, struck dumb.

The priestess honest-to-goodness _scowls_ at them. Like they're the ones being offensive and inappropriate.

It registers with Adam that unless the air priestesses all wear the same garb regardless of rank, the woman standing before them is the High Priestess of Air. Only she's not the one that had attended the blessing; this woman is still young, but the resemblance ends there. Her features are starker, her hair a bold ginger, and "sweet" is the absolute last adjective Adam would use to describe her.

"Charlie," Michael sighs, throwing down his napkin and shooting Adam an apologetic smile. "You aren't even attracted to men. Why would you be trying to catch us ... while we're ill disposed for company?"

Her responding smirk is positively filthy. "Oh, honey, you obviously know _nothing_ about women. Any girl in the city would gladly exchange sexual favors for some juicy details about the two of you in flagrante delicto."

Looking pained, Michael sighs again. "Adam, meet Charlie Bradbury, the most insouciant woman you will ever meet. She's been a full-fledged priestess at the Air Temple for less than a year and already she's giving me grey hairs. Charlie, meet Adam Winchest—" At Adam's baleful glare, Michael backtracks, correcting himself. "Adam Milligan."

"It's a pleasure," Charlie says.

"The pleasure is mine," Adam replies dubiously. Then, curiously, "Is your name really Charlie?"

"No. But if you ever call me 'Ingrid', I'll be compelled to kill you, understand?" Charlie's smile doesn't waver, but Adam gets the feeling that she's speaking in deadly earnest. He nods vigorously.

"Would you care to explain how we came to have the _pleasure_ of having _you_ suddenly assigned to our trial? Where's Priestess Eva?"

Charlie blinks innocently. "Oh, it's the darnedest thing. Eva woke up this morning with a bit of a stomach bug. I—being such a kind, generous soul—offered to stand in for her."

"Kind," Michael repeats.

"Yes."

"And you had nothing to do with her 'stomach bug'."

Charlie's hands fly to cover her heart. "Certainly not. It pains me that you could even consider such a thing!"

Michael's face is perfectly bland, but Adam gets the feeling that Michael is amused.

"So," Michael says, "what fresh hell have you come to deliver us into?"

* * *

The second trial as set out by Charlie is neither especially harrowing nor complex, but Adam just knows it's going to be a frustrating experience. If neither of them end up with a broken ankle by the end of the day, it will be a miracle.

"A maze," Adam mutters, studying the opening in the hedges with growing dread. He never would have guessed that there was enough flat, fertile land this high in the mountains for the Air Temple to accommodate an expansive garden complete with a massive, winding hedgemaze. Come to think of it, there probably hadn't been enough viable space for a garden originally. With so many mages around, why bother obeying the laws of nature?

But seriously: a maze.

They have to navigate to the center of a maze and back out again—and with only one pair of eyes between them. Because apparently the name of the game today is "trust" and trust means role-playing as blind man and guide dog. Michael will be blindfolded on the way to the center of the maze; Adam will be blindfolded on the way back out.

It's not going to be pretty.

At. All.

"A _maze_ ," Adam says again.

"Pretty neat, huh?" Charlie says and gleefully whips a scrap of fabric out of her sleeve—the blindfold. "Michael, are you ready to begin?"

"Let's get this over with."

It's nice to know Adam isn't alone in his misery. He suspects Michael would rather be shoving Charlie into the nearby fountain than leaning down for her to fix the blindfold in place. Charlie seems to know it too, if her mocking expression is anything to go by.

Once the blindfold is in place, Adam steps a little closer to Michael and wonders if there's a particular way he should touch him to better offer guidance. Will holding hands be good enough? Would an arm around the waist be better? It would be weird, yeah, but would that help prevent Michael from tripping?

Quietly, Michael says, "Adam, all will be well," and squeezes Adam's hand.

"That's sweet," Charlie snorts. "Now remember: no using magic to cheat. If anything goes wrong, Michael should send up a distress signal. One of the acolytes will check in on you every hour or so as a precaution. The gods are with you. Good luck!"

Nervously, Adam shifts his weight and says, "Is this a bad time to mention that I have a terrible sense of direction?"

* * *

The hours that follow aren't exactly thrilling, but they aren't awful either. Other than a few scratches here and there from walking too near the hedges and tripping over roots, Adam is able to keep Michael mostly unscathed. They spend more time wandering in hopeless circles than Adam cares to admit; however, that's not unexpected. Adam is directionally challenged at the best of times. Someone issued him a faulty mental compass at birth.

Michael is a good sport about it all. Whenever Adam's frustration begins to spike, Michael starts babbling about life in the city, local traditions, the best places to eat, the latest gossip, and other mindless things. Adam finds himself interested in spite of himself, though his interest is not so much for the trivia as for what that trivia tells him about Michael. This is a man who loves his country, his city, and his academy. He's a busy man, but he doesn't let his obligations prevent him from partaking in his favorite pastimes or spending time with friends and family. He can be silly. He can do inadvisable things.

Many of those inadvisable things seem to have involved Charlie, whom Michael had apparently met when they were both schoolchildren, before he'd officially been accepted into the mage's academy and she into the sisterhood of the Air Temple.

"I was eight when I first came to the city. I'd grown up on my family's country estate, being pampered and coddled and showered with praise by everyone. I'm sure you can imagine how insufferable I must have been. I was accustomed to having my way, to people bowing before my every whim. Charlie, of course, wasn't inclined to let me boss her—or anyone—around. She knocked me down five minutes after meeting me, bloodied my nose. I have counted her as a dear friend ever since."

Dean is the specter in the periphery of Michael's life, the unacknowledged shadow in most of Michael's stories.

* * *

They reach the center of the maze more by chance than by rote. Michael tries to hide his relief at being able to remove the blindfold, but proximity breeds familiarity; the man's not all that hard to read, really. Though Adam doesn't know what to make of the way Michael's eyes widen when he peers down at Adam once he has adjusted to the light.

Adam's hands fly to his face, feeling for anything unusual. "What? Is there something on my face?"

"No. Well, yes. Sort of." Michael reaches out with one hand as if to touch Adam's face, but stops before making contact, hand hovering uncertainly. "It's just. You've started to freckle."

Adam groans. "Already? It's the curse of fair skin. The maze has a lot of shade. I'd hoped I could have avoided this." He's not vain. Honestly. He just _hates_ freckles. At the tender age of eighteen, he has a hard enough time being taken seriously as it is; it's so much worse when he gets all spotty like some twelve-year-old child who's been out kicking a ball around with his little friends in the sun all day. Call him crazy, but he'd much rather burn than freckle.

His mother doesn't freckle. He's pretty sure it's another accursed Winchester trait. Thanks, Dad.

"They don't look bad. They're actually sort of—"

"If you end that sentence with 'cute', I will end _you_ ," Adam promises sweetly, flashing his teeth.

Michael blinks with an air of feigned innocence and waves one hand in the direction of the picnic blanket and basket setup in the shade near a burbling fountain. "I'm hungry. Are you hungry? Shall we see what's been left for us?"

"I sincerely hope your line of work doesn't require much lying or misdirection, because you fail at both."

Laughing, Michael takes Adam by the wrist and tugs him toward their waiting meal. "Come on," he says. "You'll feel better after a little nourishment. And then maybe a nap? We have some time to spare before we need to start back."

"Do I look like a toddler? I don't take naps."

Michael smiles that placid smile that Adam is fast coming to distrust.

* * *

About an hour latter Adam's head is pillowed in Michael's lap and he's being gently coaxed back to consciousness.

"Uh," Adam groans in protest, swatting blindly at the hands patting lightly at his cheeks. There's a chuckle, then those hands squeeze Adam's face obnoxiously between them—a pressure that, while not painful, is definitely awkward and undignified. He shoves free and rolls away with a few muttered insults and a bleary-eyed scowl in Michael direction.

Michael grins back, unrepentant.

"Ah, the fair prince awakens. What's that you were saying about toddlers and naps?"

"Shut up," Adam sulks, his mood going even blacker when Michael pulls out the blindfold and dangles it between them. "I hate you."

"My, my—aren't you a grumpy kitten this afternoon?"

"When did you become so sassy? What happened to trying to ingratiate yourself into my good graces? I think I liked you better when you were full of guilt and angst."

"Adam," Michael laughs, "if there is one thing I've learned over the past few days, it is that playing the doormat will never get anyone anywhere with you."

* * *

The journey out of the maze is just as uneventful as the way in had been. Michael picks up where he'd left off with his earlier storytelling and ushers Adam forward at a snail's pace.

Adam's respect for Michael skyrockets drastically within the first fifteen minutes. Although Adam trusts that Michael will do everything within his power to prevent Adam from coming to harm, each blind step is positively nerve-wracking. How Michael managed to keep calm and yammer on about pointless things that morning Adam will never know; it's all Adam can do to keep putting one foot in front of another.

It's not long before Adam is crowding up against Michael's side. He hates himself a little for his show of weakness. He's not in any danger. He's faced much scarier situations than taking a leisurely stroll through a luxury garden with a bit of fabric tied around his head.

"How are you faring, Adam?"

"Well enough," Adam lies.

He'd never realized how vulnerable being deprived of one of the five senses could leave you.

* * *

By the time they finally wind their way out of the maze, even Michael's words have dried up, his voice having gone rough and scratchy, strained from overuse. Charlie is waiting for them at the exit, chipper and verbose enough to fill the silence without any help as she escorts them to the carriage that will take them to their next destination.

Michael weaves another calming spell, wrapping it around Adam like a comfort blanket. The spell works quickly, easing the knot of tension in Adam's chest, but this time he is not the one lulled into the realm of sleep; Michael dozes off within minutes of departure, his head lolling against the carriage window. Every once in a while, when the carriage jostles him about a bit too hard, he snorts and shifts in his seat with a nonsensical mutter, flexing his grip on Adam's wrist as if to reassure himself that Adam is still there.

Adam regards him silently all the way to the Water Temple. He thinks of Michael's soothing voice in that maze, of his guiding touch, of the way he always seems so concerned with Adam's comfort, of the dark shadows under his eyes, of the obvious worry leaking through now that he's not aware enough to hide it. Mostly, though—mostly Adam thinks of how Michael is nothing like any nobleman he has ever met. He's nothing like Adam had feared.

Michael is a good man.

Maybe trusting him won't turn out to be a mistake.

Maybe it's time to take a leap of faith.


	4. Part III

If Adam had thought their designated quarters within the fire and air temples were impressive, one step into their quarters at the water temple renders all previous accommodations shoddy and lackluster by comparison. It's not a mere guest apartment: it's a massive luxury apartment, no doubt complete with all the amenities one could possibly think to wish for (and probably a few more besides). It's so far beyond impressive that Adam's not sure a vocabulary exists to describe it.

"Welcome to my humble home," Michael says with a flourish. He has the good grace to blush when Adam turns to him with eyebrows raised high. "Yes, I'm afraid the apartment is officially mine; or, rather, it's reserved for the Archmage of Water. When I am not teaching classes at the academy or required at court, I tend to spend most of my time here at the temple. I consider it my primary residence."

"Uh, it's..." Adam trails off, grasping for something diplomatic to say.

"Overwhelming? Ostentatious? Exactly the sort of ridiculousness one might expect of those of my set?" Michael suggests wryly, tugging Adam further into the apartment. "It is quite alright; I'll not be offended if you say so. Most of what you see here is my predecessor's handiwork; she was very fond of her extravagances."

"And your tastes are more moderate."

"Just so."

"Then why don't you make some renovations of your own?"

"There are appearances to maintain—and I am reliably told that my taste of décor is unsuitable for a man of my standing," Michael mutters, sounding so chagrined that Adam has to laugh. "Find that amusing, do you? Perhaps I'll leave the task of renovating the apartment to you. See if you laugh then."

Adam huffs. "Do you think that a threat? Perhaps you should leave it to me. I may not be up on the latest trends here in the capital, but I know a thing or two about keeping house and maintaining appearances. I am a servant, as you well know."

"Were," Michael corrects. "You _were_ a servant."

Adam's good humor falters. "Oh. Right. Well then." An awkward pause stretches out, during which Adam is all too aware of Michael's worrying eyes on him. He's alright. He _is_. "It will take me a while to adjust. I forgot for a moment. Forgive me."

"Nothing to forgive," Michael says, then adds abruptly, "Perhaps a tour is in order?"

"Yes, please."

Because Michael's voice is still showing signs of hoarseness from so much speaking earlier that day, Adam makes a point of requesting to see the kitchen first, where he insists they pause for a glass of cool lemonade. From there Michael leads Adam around the dining room, parlor, library, study, two workrooms, two water closets, and three bedrooms, all the while sharing amusing anecdotes about the apartment's former inhabitants. There is certainly no shortage of things to boggle over.

The last room Michael shows him is by far the most mind-boggling of all.

"Good lord!" Adam exclaims, eyes bugging out in astonishment.

It's a bathing room.

It's a bathing room with a tub very nearly large enough to swim in.

The tub takes up a good three-quarters of the room, dug deep into the tiled floor and already filled nearly to the brim with clear, clean water. It's even larger than the tub in Michael's academy residence. A good deal more than two or three people could fit into that thing. More than ten could probably fit in it!

Adam can't help but stare with mixture of longing and horror.

It must be so lovely to stretch out along the ledge when the water is freshly drawn and piping hot, drifting in a blissful pool of weightless comfort. But just how long must it take to drain, clean, and refill the bath? Even with the advances in modern plumbing or with the aid of magic, surely it's more effort than it's worth? Why would anyone want to go through all that trouble?

Capital dwellers are clearly insane.

Adam is in the process of binding himself to a madman.

"You don't like it," Michael observes.

Adam shakes his head. "It's not that I don't like it. It's more that..."

"It's unnecessarily self-indulgent."

"Well, yes," Adam reluctantly agrees. "I mean, isn't it an awful lot of work to maintain?"

"Not as much as you might think," Michael says—and then the skin at Adam's wrist, where Michael's hand has grasped him, tingles tellingly. His eyes fix on that place, unable to look away, though he's not sure why. He can't actually _see_ anything. Michael is working his magic, weaving a spell, and Adam can feel the threads of it pulling together even through Michael's shields. Can almost make out the pattern.

The spell falls away.

When Adam looks up, curious to learn the purpose of the spell, he lets out a startled gasp. The tub is now overflowing with bubbles, steam rising from the surface in lazy wisps. Adam is suddenly, acutely, aware of how sweaty and dirty he must be from strolling around a garden all day.

"Believe it or not, I see to most of the bath's maintenance myself. I am a master of water; refreshing the water is a simple matter. As the bath is ready to be used, would you, perhaps, be interested in taking advantage of it?"

"Oh, yes!" Adam exclaims, and then ducks his head, abashed by his own enthusiasm.

Michael merely chuckles, releases his hold on Adam's wrist, and procures a fluffy towel and white robe from the cupboard, setting them both on the edge of the tub. "I shall leave you to it then. A nice, long soak will do you some good, I think." He walks past Adam then, heading for the door.

And Adam thinks, _no_.

"Wait."

Michael stops, turning back with a curious expression. "Is there something you need?"

"Yes, no, I—" Adam bites his lip. He tries again. "Won't you join me?"

Curiosity morphs into something more pensive as Michael stands motionless, considering him with thinly veiled apprehension. Adam's meaning is unmistakable. The question is whether Michael will give him what he wants (what he thinks he's ready for).

He expects a refusal, or at least some resistance, so he's taken off guard when Michael instead nods, saying, "Yes, I think I would like that."

"I, uh. Good. That's good."

Michael nods again and fetches a robe and towel for himself. Adam watches him, nervously toying with the hem of one billowy sleeve.

He's being stupidly reckless again, but what choice does he have? Soon their four days will be up. What will happen if they haven't consummated the bond by the time the trial period ends? Will the gods be angry? There will be consequences, of that Adam is sure. Those consequences could be a lot worse than needing frequent skin-to-skin contact. Would the gods refuse to endorse such a half-hearted bond? Would they curse Michael and Adam both for refusing to do their duty and breaking their vows? He doesn't care to find out.

The bond must be consummated. As Michael is too much a gentleman to make the first move, it falls to Adam to do so.

He enjoyed what they'd done last night. Enjoyed the way Michael accepted Adam's kisses. Enjoyed the half-moans, the heat of him, the feel of his hands and mouth and just. Everything.

If sex with Michael is anything like kissing him, Adam is sure he wants it. Maybe it will be scary at first, probably it will be a little painful, but he trusts Michael to do right by him. He also trusts that, despite Michael's warning that first times are rarely good, his _will_ be.

Shy, Adam haltingly pulls off the outer robe and lets it pool on the floor. With shaking hands, he reaches for the gold cord looped around his waist. The knot shouldn't be difficult to pull lose, but his fingers refuse to cooperate. Cursing, he fumbles at the knot until two larger hands gently push aside his own to make quick work of it.

The cord falls to floor.

Adam looks at Michael, breath caught in his throat.

Michael has already stripped down to those silly poofy trousers.

They're doing this. They're really doing this.

Michael rests his hands lightly at Adam's hips, loosely gripping the fabric of the shirt. "May I?"

Adam nods mutely, raising his arms so Michael can pull the shirt over his head. His heart pounds in his ears. There is intimacy in this, in letting Michael tend to him this way. He closes his eyes tightly, but he can't block out the rustling sound of the shirt hitting the floor or the prickling intensity of Michael's eyes drinking him in. The room is warm—humid, even—but he shivers anyway, skin pebbling with gooseflesh.

Michal's hands trail fire down Adam's arms, over his belly, until at last he reaches the tie of Adam's pants. They come loose easily. Puddle at his ankles. His undergarments follow. Obligingly, Adam steps free of them, forcing his eyes open.

Adam doesn't know what to make of the way Michael is looking at him.

Here he is, standing naked before a man he barely knows. A man he already belongs to in ways he doesn't fully understand. No one else will ever know him like this.

"You are beautiful," Michael says and kisses Adam, close-mouthed, yet lingering.

Adam shivers again and reaches out to untie Michael's trousers. His courage fails him before he can slide off Michael's underclothes too. Michael doesn't seem to mind, merely huffing a laugh against Adam's mouth before taking care of it himself.

And then they're both naked. Gods.

Ending the kiss, Michael takes Adam by the hand and unselfconsciously leads him down into the tub. Adam can't restrain himself from sneaking a peek at the curve of the man's ass and—Well, he also catches a glimpse of his... of his cock. Adam's not sure what constitutes as normal, but Michael is definitely bigger than he is; taking him in... Will Adam be able to do it?

The pleasant heat of the water provides a welcome distraction. Standing up, the water level rests about a handbreadth above Adam's navel; sitting on the ledge, the water nearly reaches his shoulders. Adam leans back, allowing some of his anxiety and stress to drain away.

For a long while there is only the sound of bubbles popping in his ears and their steady, nearly-matched breathing.

Eventually Adam works up the courage to make his move.

Aware of Michael's lazy attention, Adam slowly soaps up his hair and body before timidly suggesting that Michael come wash his back. The invitation is obvious—brazen, really—and he's blushing so hard that he once again finds himself unable to look Michael in the face. He's pretty sure he's blushed more in the past few days than he has in all the years prior combined.

Things sort of blur after that.

Blur until Michael is kissing him on the mouth, until his hands are on Adam's ass like they belong there, until Michael's erection is pressed up against his own, until one finger presses against the sensitive rim of Adam's hole, until Michael is whispering against Adam's mouth, "I want to take your cock into my mouth and fuck you open on my fingers. Will you let me?" and Adam is choking out something that may not be a "yes," but absolutely isn't a "no."

The scene shifts into sharp focus then.

Adam clings to Michael, feeling small in his arms—which is ridiculous! Michael's not much bigger than him; a little broader, yeah, a little more filled out, but Adam is nearly his match in height and he's not exactly some starving, skinny waif. Michael manhandles him like he weighs nothing at all, effortlessly sweeping him to the side of the tub and out of the water, so that he's sitting on the cold granite floor, hardened cock on full display.

A shock of magic washes over him and—gods!—suddenly there is a whole heap of towels at his back and he's being maneuvered onto them.

"The floor can't be comfortable," Michael explains gruffly. He grabs a bottle from the assortment of soaps and oils, slicking his fingers with its contents.

"What is that?"

"A water-resistant lubricant. Water itself isn't a particularly good for this sort of play." Michael caps the bottle, setting it down beside Adam, within easy reach. "You should never do this without lubricant—and by lubricant, I mean something created especially as a sex aid. Shampoo, soap, lotions and common household products may sometimes be more readily available and slick enough to do the job, but they may contain irritants that could—"

"Is now really the right time to lecture me on safe sex practices?" Adam interrupts, gesturing toward his waning erection.

Michael laughs. "Sorry. You are absolutely right."

The first touch of Michael's slick fingers against Adam's hole is tentative, rather more ticklish than seductive, but then there's _pressure_ and the tip of one finger slips past the tight ring of muscle, slips _inside_.

"That feels so weird."

"How weird? Do you want me to stop?"

"No. Keep going."

Michael obeys. With almost agonizing slowness, Michael eases his finger carefully in, sliding deeper, past the first knuckle, the second, and then he's gone as far as he can go. Adam's body keeps clenching instinctively, protesting the intrusion, but it's not bad. Just uncomfortable. And still very weird. He can't imagine why anyone would _want_ to do this.

"Look at you," Michael breathes. "So lovely." He flexes his finger, thrusting shallowly as he does so, and it's like there's purpose to the motion. Like he's searching for something.

Without warning, Michael's questing finger brushes over something inside of Adam, sending a jolt of pleasure sparking up his spine and Adam's breath gasping out of him. Before Adam can open his mouth to demand to know just what manner of sorcery Michael is working on him, Michael's head is bowing forward and his mouth, gods, _his mouth_. Michael swallows Adam's cock—all of it!—down like he was born for it, making wet, obscene sounds as he sucks and starts to bob his head. If not for the hand pressed firmly over his belly, Adam would have surely lost control and started thrusting up into that perfect mouth without a thought to spare for Michael's comfort.

The finger inside Adam thrusts in time with Michael's bobbing head, repeatedly brushing over that magic spot until he's practically sobbing out "oh god" and "yes, there" and "please" and "more" in mindless desperation, wanton as any two-bit whore.

There's a growing tingle under his skin, a shivering need to be closer to Michael, a desire born of more than just physicality—it's the bond, winding its way around them both, thrumming its approval in ways that makes Adam's toes curl and his hips jerk. He can't even bring himself to feel ashamed of his loud, protesting whine when Michael removes his finger completely or at the way his back arches when he's rewarded with two fingers instead of just the one.

He doesn't last long after that, his orgasm blossoming so suddenly that he can't even choke out a warning before he starts coming. Michael doesn't complain—just makes a pleased noise and swallows him down to the root, humming encouragement until Adam is boneless and spent. Only when the last bit of pleasure has been wrung out of him does Michael remove his fingers from Adam's aching hole and let Adam's limp cock slip from his mouth, licking his lips with smug satisfaction, every bit the cat that'd got the cream.

There's a bit of something white collected at the corner of Michael's mouth. If it were humanly possible for a man to recover so quickly, Adam's cock would have sprung up again in an instant. Gods. That was. There aren't even words for what that was.

Panting softly, Adam flops against the towels and stares mindlessly at the ceiling.

"Alright?" Michael asks.

"Yes," Adam breathes, then frowns, propping himself up on his elbows to luck at Michael. "Are you going to, uh, penetrate me now?"

"Not tonight."

"Oh." Adam tries not to think about the disappointment that crashes over him at that. "Well, at least I could help you ... with my hand, maybe? I don't think I'm ready to use my mouth. Is that okay?"

Michael makes a strangled noise. "Adam, I appreciate your offer—but it's unnecessary."

And then Michael blushes. A deep, full-body blush.

Adam's eyes widen. "You mean you—"

"You are very attractive," Michael says with a self-deprecating laugh. "I didn't even need to touch myself."

* * *

Even before Adam opens his eyes on the morning of the third trial, he senses Michael's excitement; the man is practically quivering with it, unable to keep still. Adam attributes this to the pending trial being much more personal to Michael than the others. As someone sworn to serve Enmu, Lord of Water, he'll want to make a good showing before his god, yes?

As it turns out, Adam is only partially correct.

"This will be your first introduction to life at the temple. Once your training as a vessel is complete, we will both be spending a lot of time here," Michael explains when Adam asks. He doesn't add, "I want you to like it here," but he doesn't need to.

Luckily, the trial laid out by High Priestess Ellen lends itself very well to Michael's desire to show Adam around.

"We're sending you boys on a scavenger hunt," the priestess says, voice lilting with a country twang. "But don't go thinking that this will be a cakewalk. You'll be following a trail of riddles, the first of which will lead you to the second and so forth. Keep sharp, work together, and maybe you'll even learn something."

She leaves them with a piece of parchment upon which is penned:

> I give you a group of three. One is sitting down, and will never get up. The second eats as much as is given to him, yet is always hungry. The third goes away and never returns.

It takes Adam a minute to puzzle it out, but once he has it, he can't contain his laugh. "Oh, but that's so easy!"

"You have it? I'm at a loss, I confess."

"But it's so obvious! There is a group of three things—things that go together. Really, it's the second object that's the big clue. What is often described as endlessly 'hungry' in riddles?" At Michael's blank express, Adam exclaims, "Fire, of course! From there, it's easy to guess the other two."

"The third must be smoke," Michael muses, frowning down at the paper. "But what of the first?"

"A stove, of course!"

"I am not sure I follow."

"Why, a stove sits on the floor, doesn't it? And it's not exactly mobile; it isn't going to get up and walk away, is it?"

Lips quirking, Michael says, "I see. I'm not sure I would have been able to come up with that on my own. You've seen how well I get along with stoves. The world is better off if I don't even think about them."

Adam recalls their misadventures in baking and shakes his head fondly. "Point taken."

Michael leads the way to the main kitchen, where a plump, rosy-cheeked cook wordlessly passes them a slip of paper with the next riddle:

> Half-way up the hill, I see thee at last, lying beneath me with thy sounds and sights – A city in the twilight, dim and vast, with smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.

This time Michael is the one to solve the riddle. He doesn't even bother sharing the solution before he tugs Adam out of the kitchen and down a few winding corridors to stops outside a heavy oak door.

"You'll like this," Michael says and pushes open the door to reveal an extensive portrait gallery. "Here hang the portraits of every Archmage of Water since the first. Can you guess the riddle?"

Adam re-reads the riddle, trying to see past the deceptive poetry, and considers the room.

"History?" he tries.

"The past, yes," Michael affirms.

They find the next riddle hanging obviously beside the portrait of the very first Archmage, who incidentally bore the name Mikhael and vaguely resembled Michael—if Michael were 30 years older, a fair few stones heavier, and wore an awful wig of long, white curls.

"So that's what you'll look like as an old grandfather," Adam teases. "Very attractive."

"Just so," Michael agrees, mock-preening.

They spend some time wandering around the portrait gallery before moving on, Michael expounding on the sins and virtues of his most notable predecessors. Adam is coming to the slow realization that not only is Michael a walking, talking book of history—he's also a bit of a gossip.

Their next stop turns out to be the wine cellar, followed by the communal library, the primary chamber of worship, and a few locations so random that Michael and Adam are both raising their brows in bafflement. (A broom cupboard? Really?) They make a few wrong guesses here and there, but overall they are a pretty good team.

The fact that they're doing so much wandering around in public areas comes with a special brand of weirdness. Being a "ghost" when nobody is around to ignore you is one thing; being invisible in a crowded room is quite another. It's a little creepy at first, but he gets over it. After a while, he even starts to enjoy it, going so far as to make a game of trying to incite reactions in the people around them. Mostly he fails, but he does succeed in making Michael laugh hard enough to snort once (which is amazing—he sounds like a wild boar!), so it's well worth the effort.

Things take a more serious turn when their path leads them into the menagerie, which is split into two divisions: the mundane and the magical.

Their latest riddle has them searching out a mermaid. An honest to goodness, real, live _mermaid_. His mother will be so jealous! What else will he see in the menagerie? Nereids? Rusalki? Sirens? Serpents? Undines? Although the mundane inhabitants of any temple menagerie are kept primarily for exhibit and educational purposes, the magical inhabitants will have been taken in primarily for rehabilitation purposes following injury or the onset of illness. It's impossible to say just what Adam will see today!

Somehow he'd failed to realize that his (albeit reluctant) bonding with an Archmage would place him in a prime position to visit such a guarded place.

His giddiness fades the moment they pass through the entryway into the outdoor courtyard.

A young priestess is waiting for them, looking frazzled and pale. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying. She pounces on Michael without any pride or sense of protocol. "Oh, Enmu be praised! You must come quickly, my lord! The Nixie has gone into labor, but it is not her time and the babe is facing the wrong way round and we can't turn it because she won't let us near her and _we're going to lose them both!_ Please, she trusts you. She'll let you help her. You must save her, you must!"

"I—But I can't," Michael says, stricken. "You know that. I'm in my trial period—"

"Go," Adam interrupts.

"What?"

"You heard me. Go help that poor Nixie, if you can. I'll entertain myself until you rejoin me or until the bond compels me to find you. If we don't finish the trial, then we don't finish the trial. This is more important. I'm sure Enmu would agree. You do what you need to do."

Michael's relief is palpable. Adam knows he's done the right thing. If Michael's sense of obligation won't let him throw out the rulebook when circumstances call for it, Adam will just have to do so for him. No problem. Selective rule-breaking is something he's good at.

"Adam—"

"Why are you still here?"

"Thank you," Michael says and swoops in to steal a hasty kiss before racing off with the half-hysterical girl at his heels.

Lips tingling, Adam watches him go.

* * *

The menagerie of magical creatures turns out to be a lot more expansive than Adam originally anticipated. Different creatures require different climates. For obvious reason, the Water Temple has taken advantage of its seaside location by structuring its saltwater habitats along the shoreline behind the temple, whereas the freshwater habitats cluster along various man-made waterways in a sprawling arc to the right of the temple.

Adam starts his explorations along the seashore, where he quickly finds the mermaid mentioned in the riddle. She's a friendly, light-hearted creature, who passes him the next riddle tucked in a glass bottle before playfully flicking water at him with her tail and diving away.

He sees many other marvels as he winds his way through the habitats. Unfortunately, most creatures are not as friendly as the mermaid. They shy away from him, watching from a distance with weary eyes if they show themselves at all. Many seem to have similar reservations about the priestesses and acolytes, so Adam tries not to feel slighted. It's nothing personal. These creatures are here because they're hurt—vulnerable—in some manner. It makes sense that they would be cautious. Humans and the magic folk don't exactly have a stellar history of living in mutual harmony.

As Adam nears the end of the seaside path, he rounds a corner to find his route blocked by a creature that has escaped its pen—a gorgeous, black mare with a long, dripping mane.

Adam freezes in his tracks.

The mare stares back at him, nostrils flaring as she scents the air.

What is he supposed to do? Even if the mare isn't naturally dangerous (and Adam has no way of knowing if that's the case), she could crush him in an instant if she startles.

Adam starts inching slowly backward.

The mare bows her head low and whinnies pitifully, pacing a few steps after Adam before whinnying again.

Adam pauses. "You ... don't want me to go?"

She bobs her head in a gesture so human that the absurdity of it surprises a laugh out of Adam. Okay. He's having a conversation with a magic horse. How is this his life?

She _is_ beautiful though. And she seems harmless enough. Adam's fingers itch to stroke her coat, to see if she feels anything like a normal horse would. Her coat appears slicker, shinier—maybe it's slippery? A little slimy?

"May I touch you?" Adam asks.

The mare tosses her mane and dances within reach, whinnying excitedly. Adam snorts at her antics and relaxes his guard. "You are a lively girl, aren't you," he croons softly and tentatively rests one hand high on the mare's back. She's cold to the touch and there is definitely an odd filmy texture to the hairs, but it's not slippery or slimy at all. Quite the contrary.

It's sticky. Adhesive.

His hand—it won't budge.

"What?" He grabs his wrist with his free hand and leans back, throwing all of his weight into the effort of pulling himself free. It doesn't work.

And Adam thinks he knows why.

He remembers being a small child sitting by the kitchen fire in the evenings, listening attentively as Old Granny whispered hushed tales of wonder and of warning. Remembers her talk of water horses.

"Yes," she had said, "most are friendly and harmless—protectors of travelers and children—but not all. Hush, child. Listen and take heed. Trust the noble unicorns, the majestic hippocampi, the wise ichthyocentaurs, and the white horses. But do not trust the wicked ones, the dark ones, the flesh-eaters. Do not trust the—"

"Kelpie," Adam breathes in horror. "You're a kelpie."

The kelpie's flesh shivers under Adam's hands as the creature lets out a low, inhumane laugh and swings its head to look at Adam with eyes now blazing red as embers, lips curled to show razor sharp teeth. It will devour him with those teeth. It will drag Adam out to sea, where it will drown him and deliver his limp carcass to its nest and tear him apart, sharing him amongst its young. Here an arm, there a leg. Who would like a tasty liver?

 _Michael_ , he thinks desperately, _help me_ , and then the creature lunges forward and Adam has no choice but to hurriedly slap his free hand down on the opposite side of the creature and use what leverage he can muster to pull himself awkwardly onto the creature's back. This leaves him handless and in more trouble than ever, but it's better than being bashed to death as he's dragged along.

At least he has presence of mind enough to brace against smashing his face against the kelpie's hyde as he's jostled about; the last thing he needs is for his face to be stuck to the beast too! The adhesive is activated by some chemical in human skin. If he can prevent himself from becoming further enmeshed, perhaps he stands a chance of coming out of this. Somehow. He's just got to _think_.

Adam's not an idiot. He screams—praying that someone will hear him, someone with the wits to stage some sort of rescue.

Habitats pass in a blur. The inhabitants of those habitats screech and howl out a blood-curdling counterpoint to Adam's own distress. Branches seem to leap out at him, whipping and snagging at him as he hurdles past. His thin robes offer little by way of defense, but he can't worry about that. Not now.

He's running out of time.

The harbor. It's just up ahead—

And are those people? Yes! Yes, there are men and women gathering at the head of the path down to the harbor, scurrying to block the way.

The kelpie is undeterred. It doesn't falter, doesn't slow, doesn't doubt its course of action. It speeds up. What does it have to fear? It is large and strong; humans are puny. Weak. Their skulls will crush beneath its deadly hooves.

It doesn't take into account the fact that many of the priestesses and acolytes possess some small magical gift; neither does it account for the possibility of visiting mages.

Spells start flying.

Spells that tug at Adam's senses.

Spells that fly at the kelpie's feet, its torso, and its muzzle.

Spells that cause the great beast to hiss, to grunt, to rear up on its hind legs and jerk Adam with such violence that Adam can hear the sickening pop of his shoulder dislocating. He finds his voice for an agonized scream. Tears cloud his vision. The pain, gods, the pain—he's never felt anything like it!

A stray spell goes whizzing past Adam's ear, too close, so hot that the air sizzles and the stench of burnt hair fills his nose.

"Careful of the boy!"

"Hang in there, kid!"

The kelpie continues to buck and dodge and charge, inching ever closer to its destination. Caution may have forced it to slow, but the assembled rescue party is ill-equipped to take on a full-grown kelpie—not without putting Adam's life at risk.

All they can do is harry the creature and hope for an opening.

All Adam can do is bite his lip against the pain and pray.

Spells continue to fly around him.

"Adam!"

A voice rings out through the chaos. A voice Adam knows.

"Michael," he sobs in relief, craning his neck around to find Michael paused at the head of the harbor path astride a white horse with—Is that? Seriously? Yes. It is.

The kelpie hisses furiously, drawing Adam's attention back to the present danger. He has just enough time to suck in a fortifying breath before it snaps forward, sinking its fangs into the shoulder of a man who'd drawn too close—and then the man is on the ground, bleeding, moaning, and it's too late; they've failed. Because suddenly the kelpie is dashing the last few lengths down the pier.

Cold. The water is cold.

"Momma," Adam whispers just before he's dragged under.

He can't die. He can't. Who will take care of her?

* * *

He dreams.

He knows it must be a dream, because there's no way a place like this could actually exist; a place without light or dark, without sound or silence, without substance or space. There's nothing. _He_ is nothing.

Should he be frightened? He has the distant sense that he should be. But he's not. How could he be? Fear is an emotion. He would have to exist to feel emotions, wouldn't he?

"Adam."

A voice. That can't be right. There is no sound in this place.

"Adam, please, come back."

The voice sounds so worried. So shredded, wrecked, sad.

No, don't be sad. Please don't be sad.

Adam drifts, absently searching for the source of that voice—and suddenly he finds he does exist after all. He has ears to hear, eyes to see, a mouth to speak, a heart to break.

There's something shining in the nothingness. A glowing gold cord, wispy and ill-formed in some places, but when he wraps his hands around it, it feels tangible enough.

He follows it.

* * *

There's a hand tangled in his hair, a thumb rubbing back and forth over his forehead like an afterthought. Michael.

Adam opens his eyes.

Michael's face swims in his vision, slowly coming into focus. He looks tense and bedraggled, like he's gone ten rounds with a—Well, with a kelpie. Hair matted and spiked at odd angles. Clothes damp, stretched in some places, torn in others: unsalvageable and good for nothing but the rag pile, his servant's mind points out.

He takes stock of the room. Small. Stark white walls. Rolling table of hospital instruments along one wall. Cot beneath him. Thin blanket pulled over him. Chair by the bedside, currently occupied by Michael. He must be in an infirmary.

"You look like hell," Adam croaks.

Michael cracks a weak smile, relief palpable. "You should talk. You look like death warmed over."

"Such a flatterer," Adam says dryly. "So what happened?" He frowns. "I think I must have hit my head at some point? I seem to remember you riding to the rescue on the back of a _unicorn_ , if you believe it. How silly is that?"

Michael ducks his head, suddenly fascinated with the bland white bedspread.

Adam's jaw drops. "That actually happened! How did I miss the fact that you are actually a _maiden_?"

"I have a way with animals," Michael says defensively.

Adam opens his mouth, fully intending to take full advantage of this prime mocking opportunity (because how often does life give you unicorns?), when he notices a woman frowning at them from the doorway. Her skin and hair are dark, her fashionable gown a stunning emerald under the white of her apron. She's beautiful. And strong.

Adam can feel the magic around her, flowing muted beneath her skin. A mage.

No, not just a mage: an Archmage.

He is in the presence of none other than Lady Raphael, Archmage of Earth and the finest healer of the century.

"M-my lady," Adam stammers, trying to prop himself up on his elbows in a hopeless effort to greet the lady with the respect she deserves. This does not go over well with Michael, who pushes him back down with a warning glower, snapping, "What are you doing? Don't move. You're still healing."

"So overprotective," Lady Raphael observes coolly. "Let the boy alone. He is well enough to move about; in fact, he should be ready to leave the infirmary before too long."

"But—"

"Who is the healer here? Do you doubt my abilities? I thought not. Now, I believe introductions are in order, don't you?"

Michael heaves a put-upon sigh, looking aggrieved but resigned, and obeys, delivering the introductions with a sharpness that Adam finds slightly out of character.

Raphael promptly dismisses Michael with a curt, "Your darling boy is awake, so quit your fretting and go see to yourself while I check him over."

Adam is frankly impressed by her audacity.

"That man," Raphael murmurs, shaking her head in obvious fondness once Michael has gone. She directs a small smile at Adam. "You will have your hands full with that one, dear boy."

"He's not usually like that."

"No," she agrees, "he's not. He was just very worried about you. You scared him, I think. You were dead when he finally managed to wrest you from the kelpie and carry you out of the water. It took some doing to purge your lungs of the water and return breath to your body—and even then we couldn't be sure you would make it. Michael was a right mess when he delivered you to me."

Adam stares at Raphael, dumbfounded.

Dead? He'd been dead?

She settles down on the chair at the side of the bed and pats his cheek gently. "Now, let's discuss your injuries, shall we?"

* * *

As Raphael methodically outlines Adam's injuries and describes how her capable team of healers had addressed each one, Adam alternates between gawking at her in astonishment and marveling at his unmarked skin. Adam had been a mess when he'd been brought in—scraped and bruised all over, one shoulder dislocated, and his hands reduced to an exposed, bloody, meaty mess. It had taken the skill and endurance of no less than ten fully-trained healers to put him back in good order.

As it happened, his hands had been the most difficult to mend. During the course of Michael's daring rescue, he was forced to sacrifice finesse for speed—meaning that the skin of Adam's hands had been forfeit. He'd been lucky; most healers were not experienced with repairing such extensive nerve damage. If Raphael had not been readily available to oversee the procedure, Adam would have lost most of the sensitivity in his hands and possibly some functionality.

But now he is in near-perfect condition: hands unblemished, shoulder back in place, not a scrape or bruise in sight. The only side-effect of any consequence is some lingering hypersensitivity in his hands.

"You'll want to be careful for the next few days until it settles. Sensations will be a lot more intense—grab onto something too hot or too cold and you will regret it, I assure you."

"Yes, my lady."

Hypersensitivity is a small price to pay, all things considered.

* * *

When Michael finally returns for him, Adam can't help himself: he throws his arms around Michael and holds on tight.

* * *

With the remainder of their third trial cancelled, Adam and Michael now face an unexpected abundance of free time; unfortunately, neither is in any fit state to enjoy it. Adam just wants to hide. Michael seems to want the same—or, at least, he is content to lead Adam directly from the infirmary to their newly assigned apartment.

Adam has never been happier to hear the soft 'snick' of a door locking behind him.

Michael goes straight for the decanter of wine waiting for them on the dinette table, downing an entire glass in one go before slumping into a chair and pouring himself another.

Adam is briefly taken aback by the display, but, after a moment, he claims the chair opposite Michael and takes a glass for himself. The first swallow is sharp and bitter. The second goes down a little easier. Without even thinking about it, Adam slips off his socks and shoes and stretches one foot out to rest against Michael's bare ankle.

After a while, Michael says, "I heard you cry out for me, you know." Michael taps his forehead with his index finger. "Here. I heard you _in my mind_. I was moving before anyone knew there was a problem. Before the alarm ever sounded. I have never been more terrified than I was in that moment." Michael makes a choked noise, something between a laugh and a sob, and brings his glass back to his lips, drinking deep.

Remembering his own fear, Adam closes his eyes and takes a few calming breaths.

"I hate to think of how scared _you_ must have been," Michael continues. "I am so sorry, Adam. You have no idea how sorry I am."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I lost you. I was too late and I lost you."

"You didn't."

Fiercely, eyes blazing, Michael hisses, "I _did_." He gestures wildly, knocking over his glass in the process. The wine soaks instantly into the white tablecloth, staining it a deep, sickening red. "You were _dead_ , Adam. I _felt_ you die. Do you have any idea what that was like for me? Our bond hasn't even been consummated, much less made permanent, but I—" He pauses, sucking in an unsteady breath. "I don't know how it is for you, but I am already committed."

Adam stares down at the rippling liquid in his glass.

"Before I woke up in the infirmary," Adam says slowly, "I had a dream. I was dead. Just a formless spirit, floating in the ether. You called me back. And I came." He wets his lips and looks up to catch Michael's gaze. "Ask me again if I am committed."

Then, at least to himself, Adam acknowledges that if he had the option to walk away now—a real choice, one that wouldn't spell disaster for his mother or for himself—he doesn't know if he would take it.

"Adam," Michael breathes and looks as though he's about to say something that will inevitably embarrass them both, so Adam hastily blurts, "Take me to bed," and blushes to the roots of his hair when he realizes what he's just said. No one has ever accused him of being suave.

Michael's mouth quirks into a lopsided smile. "As you wish," he says, and rounds the table to take Adam by the hand, leading him to the bed as he had led him into the bath the night before.

Adam's pulse pounds in his ears.

Michael doesn't hesitate before he starts stripping Adam out of his infirmary-issued clothes, not even to ask permission, and that has Adam's hackles rising—until he recognizes the tinge of desperation in Michael's actions. This isn't about lust.

"Michael?"

"Please," Michael says, "please, I just need to see."

He doesn't say what, exactly, he needs to see. He doesn't have to.

Adam's body is fully exposed now. He sees what Michael sees.

Michael is gentler than ever as he guides Adam down to the bed and lightly runs his hands over Adam's body with almost clinical precision, "almost" being the operative word. Adam can't imagine a healer ever touching a patient quite like this.

There are a few new scars—small ones, fresh and stark against pale skin. His person had been assaulted more aggressively by those stray branches than he'd registered at the time. Michael traces each of these scars intently, starting with his feet and moving categorically upward, like he's mapping out Adam's geography.

Adam reacts. He's a teenage boy—of course he reacts. By the time Michael has reached the mark stretching long and thin over Adam's right hip, he's so hard he may just die. Again.

The way Michael's index finger strokes back and forth along the length of that particular scar, passing _so close_ to Adam's cock without ever acknowledging it—that is the absolute last straw.

"Michael," Adam says through grit teeth, "if you don't touch me, I may just have to murder you."

The finger on Adam's hip ceases his stroking. Michael's gaze flickers up to meet Adam's and there is no mistaking the desire burning there, all for _Adam_.

Adam breath catches in his throat. Without really being conscious of it, he reaches out to tangle his fingers in Michael's hair and reel him in for a slow searing kiss. Michael comes easily, coaxing Adam to roll onto one side so that they are laying in perfect alignment. When Michael's tongue invades Adam's mouth, Adam groans, his hips canting instinctively—and then they are both groaning, the motion having brought their cocks flush together.

Michael's hands resume their exploration of Adam's skin with new purpose. It's not long before Adam is desperate with arousal, panting and clutching at the blankets beneath him, struggling to keep it together. Michael doesn't even pause to shed his own clothes before he reaches for one of the vials of oil on the bedside table. There's something unspeakably erotic about that.

This time around Michael's fingers don't feel quite as strange when they work him open.

"Oh, yes, please," he gasps again and again—shameless, eager, wanting—until at last he can take no more and Michael is persuaded to give him what they both need.

Adam spreads his legs wider in invitation, heart pounding a deafening rhythm. This is it. This is the moment they've been working up to—and, yes, he's a little afraid, but he _wants_.

Tossing the last of his clothes hastily to the floor, Michael's weight settles over Adam like it belongs there. The hard jut of Michael's erection teases against his ass. His breath hitches.

"Ready?" Michael's voice cracks on the word and Adam can't find his voice to reply, only managing a curt nod.

And then Michael is easing in. Slow. Insistent.

There is nothing that could have prepared Adam for the stretch and burn of Michael's cock splitting him open.

"Oh," he gasps, hands flying to Michael's shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. Adam squeezes his eyes shut tight against the tears threatening to spill over, against the sight of Michael's worried face peering down at him. It hurts. It hurts _so badly_.

"Adam," Michael says, insistent. "Adam, are you—"

"Fine," Adam grits out. "I'm fine. Just. Keep going."

Michael is still for an endless moment.

Then his hands are on Adam's hips and—

And Adam is blinking his eyes open to find himself straddling Michael's lap, Michael on his back beneath him.

"Wh-what?"

"It'll be better this way," Michael says gruffly. "You'll be able to control the pace."

Adam shifts uncomfortably. "I don't..."

"Adam." Michael smiles that placid smile of his and takes one of Adam's wrists to guide his hand toward—toward, oh gods, toward _that mouth_.

Soft lips wrap around an index finger, sucking it in and—

And—

Adam lets out a strangled noise, hips jerking in shock.

Apparently Raphael hadn't been exaggerating about that hypersensitivity issue.

Michael's eyes laugh up at him as he continues to suck on Adam's finger like he'd sucked on Adam's cock just yesterday. The sensation is maddening, nerves tingling, sending jolts of liquid pleasure coursing through him until he finds himself rocking in Michael's lap, grinding down, taking Michael in deeper, deeper, deeper, down to the root of him.

He's lost then—too lost for words, too lost to truly register anything but the mouth sucking at his fingers one-by-one, the cock filling him up, the rising heat. He's burning up, smoldering into ashes, and it's still not enough, not nearly enough—

And then something _snaps into place_.

The bond.

It settles.

And it's like nothing Adam has experienced before.

Suddenly he can _feel_ Michael. Can feel Michael's heart matching the frantic beat of Adam's own. Pleasure swells between them, Adam's desire spilling over into Michael and Michael's desire into Adam—a merciless cycle that builds and builds until Adam is no longer sure where he ends and Michael begins.

 _Yes_ , he thinks. Or maybe it's Michael's thought.. He doesn't know. It _doesn't matter_ because he shaking apart, they're shaking apart, together, always together now, yes.

* * *

The first thing Adam notices when he comes back to himself is that he has collapsed on top of Michael, his come now smeared tacky between them.

The second is that the cock inside him is already hard again.

Adam's own spent cock twitches in sympathy and he tilts his head up to meet Michael's heated gaze.

* * *

When an acolyte comes to fetch Adam and Michael the next morning, she finds the door sealed against her. Hearing her persistent knocking, Adam gasps out, "Michael! Michael, shouldn't we stop? The last—ugh—last trial. We'll miss it."

Unconcerned, Michael tightens his hold on Adam's hips and thrusts harder. "I tried to tell you," Michael pants. "Sam and Lucifer didn't come out of their rooms once during their trial period except to travel to the next temple. It'll be—It'll be fine."

"Oh, Michael! I'm gonna. I'm gonna—"

With a guttural cry, Adam shakes apart, come splattering and smearing all over.

"And anyway—" Michael's hips jerk forward once, twice, then his breath hisses out as he comes, filling Adam with his seed. Adam is already filthy with it, wet and leaking and sticky and _gods_. He's ruined. If only he'd known it could be like this. "We're in the Earth Temple. Enki is a fertility god. Do you think he would really disapprove?"

Adam can't find the words to reply, so he just wraps his arms around Michael's neck and drags him into a kiss.

* * *

By the time the sun sets on the fourth and final day of their trial period, Adam is exhausted and sore, rubbed raw in places he never even knew he had. Michael had been careful to work ointment into cramped muscles and into the stretched, used tissue of his most delicate place, but it could only do so much.

"If I was a better healer, you know I would take care of this for you," Michael had said, though Adam doubts his veracity. He's neither blind nor an idiot; he can see the spark of self-satisfied pride in Michael's eyes at the sight of Adam's aching, bowlegged walk. It's probably a sign of pending insanity that Adam likes that look on Michael.

Michael has apparently fucked all good sense right out of Adam.

* * *

Good sense returns on the carriage ride back to the city's center.

Sitting is unpleasant. The way the carriage jolts and jerks over the uneven cobblestones make the trip an absolute misery.

"I hate you."

"That's not what you said last night."

"You are never touching me again."

Michael throws his head back and laughs and laughs.

* * *

"Are you hungry?" Michael asks as he unlocks the door to his apartment, glancing over at Adam. "I could have a servant bring up a tray."

"All I want to do is sleep." Adam has been biting back yawns for the better part of an hour. If he tries to eat now, he'll probably just fall asleep at the table with a spoon hanging out of his mouth or something. He'll be lucky to stay awake long enough to perform his usual evening ablutions.

"Poor thing. Did I wear you out?"

Adam aims a kick at Michael's shin, but Michael swings the door open and darts inside at that precise moment, so he misses and finds himself stumbling forward instead. Michael's hands grab at Adam's shoulders, steadying him. The corners of Michael's eyes are crinkled with amusement.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you to bed before you do yourself an injury."

First pausing to flick on the lights and lock the apartment door behind them, Michael wraps an arm around Adam's shoulders and ushers Adam further into the apartment toward—Well, not toward the bedroom. Adam distinctly remembers that the bedroom was on the other side of the apartment. The door Michael is leading him toward is the one Adam couldn't open before, the one that was locked. Only it isn't locked anymore.

It swings open easily under Michael's hand.

The lights switch on.

Adam blinks.

"It's a bedroom."

"Yes," Michael says. "It's _your_ bedroom. Do you like it?"

Adam scans the room, takes in the plush bed, the wardrobe, the dresser. It's much like Michael's bedroom: finely furnished, but bland. Void of personality.

"It's fine. But why would you go through the trouble? I thought—" He bites his lip, uncertain. He'd thought a lot of things. "I thought we'd be sharing a room."

"I wanted you to have a place to call your own," Michael says. "It used to be a work space, but I asked the servants to clear it out and make up a room for you. We may be bonded, but you are under no obligation to share my bed."

"I see," Adam says—and he does. He offers Michael a weak smile. "Thank you."

Michael looks at him with concern. "Are you—?"

"I'm really tired."

"Adam—"

"Goodnight, Michael."

Sighing, Michael accepts the dismissal for what it is and presses a kiss to Adam's forehead with a murmured, "Sleep well."

Then he's gone. And Adam is alone.

Adam falls back onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. What had he been thinking? How foolish he'd been, letting himself get caught up in Michael. Whatever else they are, they aren't _lovers_. Not really.

They are fully and completely bonded now. There's no need for them to be invading each other's space at all hours. Establishing some distance will be good for them both.

Tiredly, Adam forces himself back to his feet to investigate the contents of the dresser and wardrobe. All his clothes are there within, neatly pressed, and his other meager possessions have been tucked away on the shelf at the top of the wardrobe to be forgotten. Sad how the contents of the past eighteen years of his life fill only two drawers and a fraction of a wardrobe.

"I'm being melodramatic," Adam pronounces to the empty room. He's had enough of self-pity.

Changing into his familiar nightclothes, old and soft from use, he listens for Michael's movements and makes for the washroom to perform his ablutions only when he's sure Michael has retired to his own bed.

On the way back to his room, Adam's gaze is reluctantly drawn toward Michael's room. The door is half-open, the room beyond dark and quiet.

Adam resolutely returns to his own room and slips into his own bed.

* * *

Sleep eludes him.

His bed is soft, but not welcoming. Try as he might, he can't seem to get comfortable; it doesn't take a genius to figure out why. And it's ridiculous. He knows it's ridiculous. He's slept alone without trouble for years; a few nights of curling into the warmth of another body should make no difference. But it does.

It's quiet. Too quiet.

Tension builds in Adam, his head buzzing with a need that's entirely his own.

He can't do this. He doesn't care if Michael wants him in his bed or not. He refuses to sleep alone in the quiet gloom of this unfamiliar room.

Shoving aside the blankets, Adam swings his legs out of bed and pads determinedly out of his own room toward Michael's. He hesitates at the half-open door, listening. The faint sound of his bondmate's steady breaths puts Adam immediately more at ease.

Slow and careful, Adam slips past the door and ghosts around the bed to the open space beckoning him. The mattress dips a little beneath Adam's weight, but the bed is big enough that the dark shape bundled under the covers on the opposite side remains undisturbed.

After a few minutes of listening to Michael breathe, Adam starts to relax. But there's still something not quite right. Something is missing.

The bed shifts.

Michael lets out a sleepy mumble, shifting, rolling in his sleep.

Or at least Adam had assumed he was asleep. He's well and truly shocked when Michael's warmth slots up against him, his strong arms snaking around Adam to pull their bodies flush together.

Voice hushed, Michael says, "You decided to join me after all."

"Yeah," Adam mutters, blustering. "Well. I knew you'd be lonely without me."

He can feel Michael's lips curl where they're pressed against the crook of his neck. "I was lonely, yes. Thank you."

Sleep comes easily after that.

* * *

Adam is reaching for the teapot, having just slunk out of the bedroom to join Michael at the breakfast table, when Michael looks at him over the top of his newspaper to announce, "The High Priestesses have already sent word of the gods' decision."

Preoccupied as he is with the all-important question of whom he would have to bribe to get a cup of coffee around these parts, it takes Adam a moment to parse Michael's meaning. When he finally gets it, he fumbles and nearly drops the teapot. The rush of adrenaline is as good as ten cups of coffee.

"Already?" Adam laughs nervously. Michael's expression is inscrutable. "I thought we wouldn't find out one way or the other until the public ceremony this afternoon."

"A common misconception. The formal announcement is reserved for the public ceremony; however, the prospective bondmates are always warned beforehand."

Adam supposes that makes sense. It would be cruel for a pair to learn that their bond has been rejected before an audience. Especially if the pair were actually in love with each other. Which isn't the case with him and Michael. Obviously.

"So, uh, what's the verdict?"

Michael smiles his gentle smile. "We will be officially married in the sight of all of Haven before the day is through."

Adam tells himself that the warm feeling that flutters in his chest at the news is only relief at the knowledge that the whole ordeal will soon be over.

* * *

Intellectually, Adam had known that the public ceremony would be a big deal. Mage-vessel bonds are a rare and exalted blessing. Centuries have passed since the kingdom has been blessed with four bonded Archmages; that it has happened now is a miracle that bodes well for Haven's future. Of course the capital's inhabitants would celebrate the good news; heck, the whole kingdom would celebrate as the news spreads!

Nothing could have possibly prepared him for the reality of hundreds of people amassing in the palace courtyard and the thousands more outside the palace gates, all shouting and cheering as their carriage inches toward their destination. The king has declared the day a holiday, so the people are out in droves.

A narrow path has been cleared for them, uniformed guards discouraging people from crowding in too close, but they're going nowhere fast; this is a special event and everyone wants a glimpse of the "happy couple." The carriage is open in parade-fashion this time, so Adam can't even close the drapes and hide. All he can do is force a strained smile and try not to panic. Or throw up. Throwing up all over himself right now would be bad. The terrifying tailor that had wrestled Adam into the day's ceremonial robes—black and silver this time around—would surely hunt Adam down and murder him if he made a mess of things.

Is it really too late to run?

Michael (the bastard) is completely at ease with the attention, smiling and waving graciously at the crowds as they pass by. People are shouting out Michael's name from all sides. He's clearly well-liked. Loved, even.

Adam can't help but think of Dean. Are people surprised that Dean isn't the one by Michael's side? Disappointed? What must they think of Adam, interloper that he is?

They turn a corner. The palace rises up before them, large and majestic. He's seen it from a distance—it would have been impossible to miss—but there's a difference between catching glimpses of its looming towers and actually seeing it in its entirety, up-close and personal. It's like something out of a fairy tale: whitewashed, gold-trimmed and glorious under the noonday sun. It's too beautiful to be real. Why, it puts the temples to shame! What do the gods think of that?

"Glorious, is it not?" Michael says lowly, breath whispering into Adam's ear. Adam nods mutely, at a loss for words. Glorious doesn't even begin to cover it.

As the carriage passes through the front gate, the roar of the crowd becomes deafening. It doesn't help his nerves at all. By the time the carriage rolls to a stop at the foot of the palace steps, Adam is shaking so hard that Michael has to guide him out of the carriage and up the steps with a steadying arm around his waist; no doubt it appears very romantic to the crowd. For Adam it's the ultimate humiliation. He's not in control. Not at all.

He can't _breathe_. It's like there's a horse sitting on his chest, pressing all the air out of him, crushing him. He's panting, sucking in breaths in quick succession, but it isn't helping. He's falling apart, suffocating. This is so much worse than the initial ceremony.

If he swoons like a heroine in those silly romance novels his mother likes so much, he may just die.

Michael's voice is a soothing murmur in one ear and, as Adam's mind grapples for calm, suddenly he's a warm presence in the back of Adam's mind too—willing him to calm down, to let go of his fear. The mind-to-mind contact is brief and indistinct, nothing like it had been when the bond first snapped into place, but it's enough to startle him out of his panic attack.

They reach the top of the stairs and enter without incident, the door closing audibly behind them.

"Oh," Adam says weakly, slumping against Michael with a sigh.

"Yes," Michael agrees.

A soft cough catches their attention and they turn to find the High Priestess of Water hovering off to one side, looking a mixture of concerned and sympathetic.

Michael and Adam both bow respectfully in her direction.

"Good afternoon, my lady," Adam murmurs quietly.

"Well met," Michael adds.

Ellen nods her head in greeting. "Good afternoon to you too, boys. It's good to see you again." She offers Adam a wry smile. "Hopefully today will be less eventful than when I last saw you, yes? If you're ready, everyone is gathered on the balcony and ready to begin."

"Perhaps you could give us a few minutes?" Michael says, shooting a worried glance at Adam, still tucked up against him. Adam shakes his head and disentangles himself. He still doesn't feel quite himself, but he feels a lot better than he did a few minutes ago.

"No," he says, "I'll be alright. Let's do this."

The sooner they start, the sooner they'll be done and able move on. The fifty or so people that have been invited to the reception afterward will be a piece of cake by comparison.

If Michael doubts Adam's readiness to continue (and Adam is sure he does), he keeps his protests to himself.

* * *

The public ceremony is a simple affair.

Adam and Michael stand at the fore of the balcony where the crowd can see them, facing each other with Michael's right hand holding Adam's left as one-by-one the priestesses approach to bind their hands in ribbons and murmur their blessings in tones much too low for the noisy crowd to hear.

Priestess Kali steps forward first. "When you first stood before us, you stood as strangers," she starts. "Now you stand as mates, bound together both by your similarities and your differences. You have much to teach one another, much to learn from one another; continue to share of yourselves as you have done and you may enjoy a lasting and fulfilling partnership. In the name of Engirru, Lord of Fire, I hereby bless your union."

The red ribbon of fire coils around their joined hands in a delicate swirl. As Kali ties it off, the bit of ribbon flickers briefly to life, becoming a playful lick of flame that tickles without burning for a mere blink of an eye before it's nothing but a ribbon again. Adam's breath hitches and he looks into Michael eyes with astonishment. Michael stares back at him, lips quirked in fond reply as if to say, "The gods are watching. What did you expect?"

Priestess Charlie steps forward next, looking far more regal and composed than Adam would have expected after having met her. "Trust is one of the most important characteristics of any successful relationship. If you cannot trust your bondmate to steer you right when you are lost or blind to truth, then you will never find your way. Place your faith in one another and you will travel far. In the name of Enlil, Lord of Air, I hereby bless your union."

The yellow ribbon of air binds them together in a more chaotic fashion, entwining with the red ribbon and looping between their fingers without apparent rhyme or reason. When Charlie is done, Adam watches as the new ribbon shifts into a translucent swirl of mist and back again, less surprised this time, but no less impressed.

Priestess Ellen steps forward and says, "The world we live in is not always kind. Sometimes it is cold and cruel. Sometimes you will need to sacrifice for, bleed for, or fight for that which you hold dear to your heart. Never forget what is important to you and to your bondmate. In the name of Enmu, Lord of Water, I hereby bless your union."

Ellen loops the blue ribbon of water around their hands with practiced efficiency. The ribbon shifts into a wet, liquid band, burbling cheerfully for a moment before squirting a few drops of fluid into Michael's face and promptly shifting back to ribbon. Michael's expression of stunned indignation shakes a laugh out of Adam, though he muffles it quickly, biting his lip.

"Traitor," Michael mutters without rancor as the last of the priestesses, the only one Adam had yet to meet, steps forward.

Priestess Jody—honest to goodness!— _smirks_ at them before she says, "A life without passion is a life devoid of purpose. The desire you feel for one another is a precious gift; but beware lest you mistake one desire for another. Before you can truly know another's heart, you must first know your own. In the name of Enki, Lord of Earth, I hereby bless your union."

The green ribbon twists and a twines with the other ribbons, becoming, for a moment, a tangle of vines. Jody steps away.

"Thank you for giving me the gift of yourself. I do not deserve you, but I swear that I will spend the rest of my days trying to," Michael says quietly, sincerely, the words for Adam's ears alone.

Adam is floored. "I'm nothing special." He's just a servant, just a dumb boy with a sick mother and a deadbeat father. His only saving grace is in a gift he never wanted and has no idea what to do with.

"I guess my first task will be convincing you otherwise," Michael says and leans in to kiss Adam's cheek—a chaste gesture that shouldn't heat Adam's blood the way it does, that shouldn't make his heart race or his palms sweat.

Together they turn to face their audience, raising their bound hands high in the air to uproarious approval.


	5. Epilogue

Spying on his bondmate from the shadows of the balcony overlooking the garden is creepy and intrusive, Michael knows, but every time Adam has slipped from sight this evening, Michael has found himself unsettled and anxious.

The last time Michael left Adam to his own devices, he nearly lost him forever; irrational though it may be, he cannot shake the foreboding sense that the danger is not over. The kelpie may be dead, but the question still remains: how did it slip past the temple's wards in the first place? Furthermore, what was it doing so close to human civilization? In ordinary circumstances, Michael might have passed the affair off as a fluke of fate, but considering the current situation, he cannot afford to ignore the possibility that the kelpie might have been part of a more sinister plot.

Adam is his responsibility. He will do all within his power to keep the boy safe.

Michael smiles wistfully as he watches Adam light up with laughter at something his mother has said, throwing his arms around her, enveloping her tiny, sickly form. Confined to a wheelchair as the woman is, the embrace is awkward, but, even from this distance, their love and affection for each other is clear as day. Adam is careful with her, so very careful.

Kate Milligan had arrived by train with a team of healers early that morning, a surprise for Adam. Michael had hoped she would be present to see her son publicly bonded, but the strain of travel had precluded that; still, she had insisted on at least making an appearance at the reception, despite her keepers' protests. Adam had clearly come by his stubbornness honestly. The way she had looked at Michael when they were introduced had made clear the fact that he would have to work very hard to win her favor. It would be an interesting challenge.

"Maybe Dean's apparent defection is not entirely the curse we thought it was."

Startled, Michael tilts his head to nod respectfully at the only man in the entire kingdom who would have dared to intrude on his solitude. "My liege," he says. "I am unsure of your meaning."

Chuck snorts in a most unkingly way and leans against the railing, glancing thoughtfully down at the mother and son laughing below before focusing again on Michael. "I have been worried about you—we all have," he says. "But now I see that we worried for nothing. I have never seen you look at anyone the way you look at that boy."

"How do I look at him?"

"Like you are a dragon and he a treasure you dearly wish to protect. You are clearly smitten."

Michael averts his eyes, directing his gaze back to Adam. Is he really so easy to read?

Chuck sighs and says, "Have you explained to him the reason for our urgency in cementing this bond?"

"No, and I'm not going to. Not yet."

"Are you sure that is wise? He must know there is something very strange about all of this."

Michael shrugs, hands going white knuckled on the railing. "He has his theories, I am sure, but I will not burden him with the truth until I absolutely must. Let him concentrate on making a life for himself here. There is nothing to be done until his training is complete anyway."

Perhaps it is cruel of him to keep secrets from his bondmate like this, especially secrets that will affect them both so profoundly, but would it not be crueler still to lay upon Adam a burden he is not yet equipped to bear? Adam is so young and already so frightened and vulnerable. Michael has taken so much from him, but he can give him this small thing: he can give him time.

"I understand you have had a chance to weave a little magic with him already. Will he be ready for what is coming, do you think? Will he be the vessel we need him to be?"

"He will have to be."

The alternative is too grave to consider.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! ♥
> 
> If you want more in this verse, be sure to let me know the interest is there; otherwise, I might allow myself to become distracted by other plot bunnies. Suggestions and requests are welcome.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Banners for "Like the Wings of a Hummingbird"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/454048) by [astrild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrild/pseuds/astrild)
  * [like the wings of a hummingbird - art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/487313) by [Cashay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cashay/pseuds/Cashay)
  * [Cover Art for "Like the Wings of a Hummingbird"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/497098) by [astrild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrild/pseuds/astrild)
  * [Snapshots for "Like the Wings of a Hummingbird"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/497110) by [astrild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrild/pseuds/astrild)




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